


Incurably In-Denial Heroes Affliction

by NamiSazanami



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Humor, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamiSazanami/pseuds/NamiSazanami
Summary: Harry had been under the insane illusion that once he'd defeated Voldemort all would be well. It was, at least, until Hermione and Ginny got it in their heads that Harry was suffering from W.A.T.E. (Wizarding Affects of Traumatic Experiences Syndrome), among many, many others. But perhaps the 'cure' they are looking for is actually in the most unlikely of places imaginable.





	1. The Stress and the Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Hex Files](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Hex_Files), which was closed for financial and health reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Hex Files collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thehexfiles/profile).

Inspiration: Crazy Like Us by Ethan Watters (Not mine, either; obviously)  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic, Inc., and AOL/ Time Warner, Inc., etc. No money is being made nor permission given. 

Chapterised by Imperial Mint; Thanks Bea!

.... …  
Hermione and Ginny’s Diagnoses for Incurably In Denial Heroes   
…Or…   
Harry’s and Draco’s Cure for Completely Imagined Illnesses   
… …

The Stress:

Harry was sure he was almost at his wit’s end. 

It started, at least as far as this week was concerned, with a persistent sore throat. He blamed that on yelling himself hoarse the other day at his students in DADA for not performing the Confundus Charms properly because they all wouldn’t stop looking at him instead of their duelling partners during the practical part of class. He had sent more students to the Hospital Wing during that class alone than probably most teachers did in a year. Madam Pomfrey was going to have his head the next time she saw him. 

They were all well into November at this point, already three months into term, and most of the students still couldn’t believe that they had the famous Harry Potter as their teacher. Well, part-time teacher, at least. Professor Surtenkou, the official DADA teacher had a severely sick family member in Bolivia that he had to take care of; Flooing back and forth from the school at least three, if not sometimes four to five times, a week and during which times Harry took over –sometimes at the very last minute too. 

Despite Voldemort’s recent defeat and Hogwart’s recent overhaul, most people were still convinced the job was jinxed, which was the main reason for Harry taking over practically all the younger classes and occasionally stepping in for the older years. He had begun writing his own lesson plans midway through October, and by the end of October he was writing all of the professor’s lesson plans as well. 

In Harry’s opinion, he might as well just be promoted up to honorary professor, graduation be damned; he was doing all the work, teaching all levels of classes by now on a fairly regular basis, and practically being paid the salary of a fulltime professor anyway. It had started out as a favour to McGonagall, newly appointed Headmistress, but after he had begun to take over more than half the classes, she overrode his protests and insisted on paying him properly. 

But at the end of the day, Harry still wondered if he deserved her support. Teaching was a lot harder than he had ever given any of his professors credit for and he only hoped that his students were walking away from his classes with something. 

Raising his glasses on his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, he watched as the last student filed out the door, giving him one last, long look in a final attempt to catch his eye. He really started to appreciate what his professors went through trying to teach young wizards and witches in training anything. Most of the time, he found himself cursing in his own version of the age old adage: I’m too young for this. 

And he was. He was only 18, and still a Hogwarts’ student himself, but what with Snape, Remus, Moody, and all the semi-sane, or at least effective, professors they’d had so far, gone, and Hogwarts in barely-functioning shape just six months past “The Battle”, as everyone had taken to calling it, Professor McGonagall was short on staff, as well as students, and still missing almost half the castle. As a result, Harry had been surprisingly – or unsurprisingly, depending on how you looked at it – the most likely candidate to help fill the position. It had only been the little thing of his age and student status that kept McGonagall from offering him the job permanently. He had the experience –no one was casting doubt on that – he had taught the subject before in DA quite successfully, if he did say so himself, and his presence had no doubt encouraged more parents to send their children back to school to be taught by the famous Harry Potter for this one year. Even if he wasn’t exactly qualified academics wise, it seemed that everyone had faith in him that he was the best choice, all the same. 

“Have a good evening, Professor Potter.”

Harry whirled around to see he had been remiss; one student, a second year Hufflepuff, had still been collecting her stuff in her bag, her friend apparently having abandoned her for the call of dinner when she had been taking too long. 

Though not a professor, per se, as he hadn’t finished his schooling, that didn’t seem to stop people from calling out ‘Professor Potter’ whenever they could. Even though he had insisted that Mr Potter would do just fine. His own year mates took particular pleasure in teasing him with the title, despite the fact that they did not take any regular courses offered at Hogwarts, DADA included. Actually, he hadn’t wanted to be called Mr Potter either, because it reminded him of Snape deducting points from Gryffindor or McGonagall reprimanding him for not paying attention. But unfortunately, he had already been admonished by Hermione when he spoke aloud his preference of letting students just call him ‘Harry’. 

He could still hear her chastising him in his head, “How can you possibly expect the students to respect you if you treat them all like your friends? You need to show them that you demand respect, Harry.” She had even made him change his whole wardrobe to better fit the part of the teacher. That was another row entirely, which Hermione obviously won as Harry was now wearing more standard, adult, fitting, wizarding robes of varying forest greens, deep blues and blood reds, which Hermione declared brought out his eyes the best. 

He still disagreed. But the issue of his title at least had been settled by his own students, who couldn’t imagine calling a teacher of theirs anything other than Professor. 

Harry blinked himself back to the present. 

“You as well, Milli,” he responded kindly, keeping the smile on his face a few moments longer as she made her way quickly towards the door, bag hastily clasped and thrown over her shoulder. “Now hurry off to dinner before it gets cold,” he told her, gesturing out the door with his arms that were wrapped around a small stack of books he had borrowed from Hermione for today’s class. “I’ll see you on Monday.” 

She nodded happily and scurried off, but not before giving him a beatific smile as one who was gazing up at her idol. That was another thing Harry felt uncomfortable with about teaching; not a day went by without at least one student asking to see some real dark magic that they were sure Harry had used to defeat Voldemort with. He had got so sick of such requests that by the end of the second day of school he had promised to deduct 20 points from the House of anyone who asked again. It was now up to 50 points, and yet there continued to be brave idiots – surprisingly not all Gryffindors – in every group, and Harry just hoped the dare and/or bravado was worth the House points it continued to cost them. 

But other than that, he’d say he was doing pretty well for his first stint in professional teaching, all things considered. Still, it was no easy mark. Whether others had faith in him or not, he was now a teacher and a student, trying to finish out his last classes required to graduate, albeit night classes that all the remaining seventh years from Harry’s group who had survived the war relatively unscathed and more importantly, alive, took together regardless of previous House affiliations. He was glad for the special care his year was being given for their unique situation, because it would seem odd and utterly unprofessional if he had to usher his students out of DADA at the end of the hour, just to hurry off to class himself. 

Not that, as the famous Harry Potter, he couldn’t get away with it and still come out smelling like roses, but he still figured it was better that their ‘lost year’ had separate classes from the rest of the school, purely on principle. And as a teacher, he now felt himself so far above the daily life of a student that he honestly didn’t think he could ever go back to it again. At least not whilst keeping his sanity and semi-content frame of mind, something he had only just recently acquired as a result of finally sending Voldemort out of his life for good. 

Harry waved and nodded at his students he passed in the hallways, all on their way to the Great Hall. Thankfully it looked like all the other professors were already at dinner, so he didn’t have to stop and chat with anyone. 

Hogwarts felt completely different now than it had only a little over a year ago, and he knew it didn’t only have to do with defeating Voldemort and the damage inflicted upon the school as a result of the war and “The Battle”. It was like he was seeing the place with a whole new set of eyes. Like he had grown a few inches and his perspective and vantage points of the world had changed. But he knew he was no taller, so it had to be the fact that he was now considered a teacher and no longer a typical Hogwarts student. 

He had now gone from the student who had always put off his work until the last possible minute and had taken procrastination to a precise and impressive art from, to the student-teacher who only Hermione could rival in the act of juggling so much at once. Not just once a week did he wish he and his group of DA misfits had not destroyed all the Time-Turners in The Department of Mysteries. If anyone was a worthy candidate to receive one, he was sure he would have been. 

Still, that didn’t stop Hermione from ragging on him about homework– an unfortunately much easier task now that the three of them shared a flat in Hogsmeade – as well as obligations to the wizarding community – hadn’t he already fulfilled those by killing Voldemort? What more could they possibly want from him? He was retired! Shouldn’t things be getting easier now that his biggest obstacle in life was DEAD!?– Oh; and finally, his girlfriend.

Out of all the things he now had added to his busy schedule and life, which didn’t include lesson plans for his classes or how to deal with randy students who liked to pay more attention to him than what he was teaching –now he knew why Snape had stayed so ugly and greasy when he had had all the potions he could possibly want at his disposal– the last one was the worst. It was also the one which he was most inclined to avoid: Ginny. 

But his thoughts were definitely digressing now. 

He wound his way through the tricky corridors of the castle towards the tapestry of the romping manticore, behind which was an airy stone passageway back to the village. Going this way afforded him at least an hour or so of privacy, as only a handful of people –friends – knew about this newly cleared, now nicely lit passageway. What was even better was that this tunnel opened up into an alleyway between a small pub and book shop, which was only a couple of blocks from his, Ron, and Hermione’s flat. As the passage door closed behind him, Harry stuffed his books into his shoulder bag and started lazily walking back home for the night. 

Before he knew it, he was coming to the end of the tunnel and up out into the streets of Hogsmeade. He rolled his neck back and forth on his shoulders and tried to will the growing headache behind the lids of his eyes away. He gently pushed up at the wooden door, spelled to look like cobblestone, and climbed through the hole. The sun was just about to disappear beyond the horizon, leaving a dark tint of orange in the sky; just bright enough to hide the blanket of stars for another hour. 

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets and wound his way down the familiar paths of Hogsmeade. Moments later found him entering his flat to see Ron slowly walking in circles around the kitchen, a small sweet, maybe a chocolate, in his hand, and a scrunched up, slightly disgusted look on his face. 

“Hey, mate,” Harry said as he shrugged his bag off his shoulder and took off his coat. 

“Hi, Harry,” Ron called absently back, still staring at the sweet with a look of consternation.

“What’s that you got?” Harry moved over to join him on the other side of the counter bar that separated the living room from the kitchen and dropped his bag at his feet. 

Ron stopped to lean against the counter and said, “I don’t know. Something Hermione’s parents sent over. It’s supposed to be some kind of toffee…I think.” He screwed up his face again and pursed his lips back in a serious look of confusion. “But they have other…stuff…on them.” He showed Harry the chopped bits of chocolate and nuts that coated the partially bitten into sweet. 

“If you don’t like it then why are you still eating it?” Harry asked, looking over warily at the tin of sweets at the corner of the table. 

“I can’t decide whether I don’t like them or not. They’re just….weird.” He popped the last piece in his mouth; it looked hard to chew. “Funny taste about them,” Ron said with a full mouth as he took to start sucking on the toffee underneath all the other ‘stuff’ Ron couldn’t seem to describe. 

Harry smiled at his friend and then pushed up off the counter to make his way upstairs and get some more books from his room. 

“Oh, before I forget.” Ron had swallowed and his attention was no longer on the sweet, but on Harry, looking reluctant all of a sudden. 

“What is it?” Harry asked warily. 

“Hermione has something she wants to…talk to you about. You know.” Ron avoided his eyes and began to cast his gaze around the room for the right phrase. “I think she read a new book, or something, about…trauma; wizards who’ve experienced trauma and are… dealing with….stuff…,” he trailed off, eyes suddenly interested in the sweets in the tin again. 

Harry closed his eyes and pressed his fingers again his medial canthus, willing it all away. With a loud sigh, he nodded his assent that Ron could rest assured in that he’d passed along the message, and then rose heavily to his feet. As he trudged upstairs to his room, he realised that no, all this stress and strain on his sanity had not started with a sore throat, per se. Nor even with the acquisition of unruly, rebelling, idolising, mad witches and wizards in-training, whom he had the lovely privilege to call his students. No, if he was to be perfectly honest with himself, this had begun several months ago with the defeat of Voldemort. 

 

....

The Aftermath:

The Great Hall during the epic defeat of Voldemort had certainly been a sight to behold. 

The moment had been so surreal, powerful, and would forever be ingrained into his memory, however fuzzy it got towards the end as his power had drained from him perilously quickly, while he had literally fought with his life for his life, and the lives of everyone else. It had ended with a well-timed Disarming Spell and his two closest friends supporting him with power and stability on either side, just within arm’s reach. Along with the presence of the Light, fighting with him and encouraging him on, they together had decided the final fate of the War. Harry was certain he had even seen the souls of the fallen gathering around him, rallying for Voldemort’s defeat in a chorus that could only be matched by the song of the phoenix itself.

But as the story goes, a story which has now been told countless times that it’s near legend and far more epic and heroic and surreal god-like than the actual encounter, Harry prevailed and Voldemort died. But in reality, the scene that followed Voldemort’s demise was much more hypnagogic than the actual death. 

Harry felt frozen. Like time had stopped. He hadn’t let himself envision his life past fulfilling his part of the prophecy that he had accepted long ago of killing Voldemort, because there was a high chance that he wasn’t going to survive. It had only seemed likely that time would stop for him from that point on. He had accomplished what he’d set out to do, achieved what Dumbledore had coached him for, played hero for the world that had expected him to. But life hadn’t stopped and he hadn’t been made into a martyr, at least not in the strictest sense. 

At first, there was a monumental silence. Silence to honour the moment; silence in respect for the dead; and silence to let the thought sink in: Voldemort was finally dead. And then people suddenly swarmed in around him with the need to touch him, talk to him, thank him, and just look at him in shock and awe. The only thing Harry could really feel was the arm and shoulder he clung to, one belonging to Hermione, the other to Ron. He held onto to them for support and anchorage, just as they did to him, to keep from being swept away in a crowd of well-wishers. 

In a word, it was chaos, but no longer the dangerous life-or-death kind. The Wizarding world was on the threshold between mortal peril – having just watched close comrades die at their side – and fantastical joy and relief that the worst of it was finally over. 

All Harry wanted to do was sleep and wake up feeling well-rested for once, which would mean he would no longer feel the necessity to be constantly alert for even the slightest hint of danger. But the world had other plans for him; plans of celebration and panegyric speeches and lofty promises professed in the heat of the moment. 

Somehow, the fanfare subsided somewhat after who knew how long, and Harry managed to get away from the suffocating crowd to make his way over to a hidden alcove behind a great statue of a knight that had fallen down sometime during the battle. From there he crouched down, hidden from outside view, and watched everyone gather together again, return to their families, care for the injured, and mourn over the dead. 

Ron had returned to his family, with Hermione’s hand firmly in his hold – and vice versa – and they had all stood in silence over George, who was still clutching his twin’s body. Mrs. Weasley had Ginny in a strong hold, her hand still clenched over her wand that had just killed Bellatrix Lestrange. Her eyes bored into the back of Ginny’s head, like she hoped that by having saved one child she could bring back the other. It broke Harry’s heart to watch, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t help any by joining them. He didn’t belong over there with them. He never had, really, but after all this was said and done, he couldn’t bring himself to mourn the loss of family anymore. He had just avenged his own family and friends who had died at the hands of Voldemort, only to have so many more families torn apart and more friends dead and gone. 

He reluctantly sent his gaze over to where Voldemort had lain fallen before, but with the help of Professor McGonagall and Kingsley, a crude funeral pyre had been set, leaving smoking, charred remains that the whole Hall could see, but thankfully none could smell. Harry absentmindedly wondered if he would ever be able to walk into this Hall and enjoy a meal the same way ever again. Probably not. Ironically enough, Voldemort’s smouldering remains covered the Slytherin side of the room. But he really wouldn’t wish anyone to sit over there ever again; not even a Slytherin. 

He wondered what would happen next and if he would return here to finish his last year and if Ginny had waited for him and where he was going to live now that he was free of the Dursleys for good. But mainly, he just sat and watched. 

He sat there and thought about his life that he could now pick up from where he’d left it off at the end of his sixth year at Hogwarts. He didn’t think of the boy Tom Riddle or what the Weasleys and the professors and his other friends would do when they found him or even what he was going to do tonight. What was the point? 

Eventually, he found his eyes drifting close and his head lolling back on to hard, cold stone. But to his tired, magic exhausted, relieved body, it felt like a bed fit for the Queen herself. And he slept. 

Somebody must have found him, though, because the next morning he did not wake up to sounds of movement in the Great Hall, but to sounds of an iron pan being scraped over the stove top and bacon sizzling and spitting inside. Opening his eyes he found himself on a very familiar tattered couch in a comfortingly recognizable abode. 

He was back at the Burrow. 

....

As wizard mourning tradition dictates, the family is supposed to stay together, not leave the house, and do nothing more strenuous than cooking, if absolutely necessary, for seven days. Hermione had gone home to start a plan to find her parents and recover their memories, but Harry was considered family by the Weasleys, who urged him to stay while they mourned Fred, Tonks and Remus. Harry silently added Colin Creevey, Hedwig, Mad-Eye, Dobby, Snape, Cedric Diggory, Sirius and the 50 others who had lost their lives on the battlefield that night to the list, as well as all those who had died at the hands of either Death Eaters or Voldemort himself during the war while Harry and his friends had run around the country trying to find and destroy all the Horcruxes. He mourned all those who had entrusted their fate to a group of teenagers, who had had to face challenges they were never ready for and never prepared for. 

Harry and the Weasleys stayed awake for a three-day vigil, mostly in silence, in honour of the dead. They didn’t bathe or change their clothes and overall rarely left the living room or kitchen the entire time. Going about one’s normal way of life was apparently highly disrespectful to the dead, as it marred their memory in the minds of those still alive, which Mr Weasley had intoned quietly to Harry on the break of the second day. 

After the vigil had lifted, they returned to some of their daily routines, but fasted with only one meal a day –breakfast, and spent most of the time preparing Fred’s funeral and deciding which of his lively possessions would rest with him. Harry and Mrs Weasley refrained – Harry out of respect for the rest of the family and Mrs. Weasley because she couldn’t even bear to enter Fred’s room – but the rest of the family searched the house for all the things that would be buried with Fred. 

Finally, when the week ended, the family ventured out to the garden where his body had been kept and Apparated to a large Wizarding grave site, where they gave him a proper burial underneath the ground in the Weasley family catacombs. 

Only after all the dead had been buried and laid to rest and the families had observed the proper mourning rites, did life seem to tentatively peek out and try to return to some semblance of normal again. Black armbands were worn over robes and there were many more instances of awkward silences when the wrong thing was said or an obvious absence was noticed in the conversation. Harry also dreaded the number of funerals he ended up attending that first month after the war. The first was Remus’ and Tonks’, where he met his godson Teddy for the first time; Harry had held him almost the whole service while the boy’s grandmother cried for the loss of her daughter, husband, and son-in-law, all in such a short time. 

Then, there had been a grand memorial service to commemorate all those who lost their lives in the battle, in which he was asked to not only be present for, but to read the names as well. He had declined making a speech, saying that it was still too soon and he would feel more comfortable showing his support by being present and visible. It was hard enough reading down the list of names of fellow students, their families, professors, and Aurors he had come to know through the Order; all gone. He thanked them for their bravery and sacrifice, and commended their final efforts that had helped the Wizarding world finally bring down Voldemort once and for all. Harry said his name loud and clear, eyes wildly scanning the room, daring anyone to flinch. Many had squared their jaws, and a fair number had cringed in their seats, but most were just looking up at him in reverent wonder. 

It was these looks that kept him on the podium a moment longer to say, “I didn’t win this war alone.” No. Hermione, Ron, Snape, Dumbledore, Neville, the Hogwarts students, the Order, and everyone who laid out their lives by refusing to bow down to Voldemort; they won this war, together. He, Harry, hadn’t done anything by himself. And that was why he won. Why they won. While Voldemort had remained powerful, yet isolated and alone, Harry had relied on the people around him and the power of collective faith and hope and endurance to triumph over Voldemort. He told the crowd as much; “These heroes,” he said, indicating the list in his hand with a nod of his head, “are the ones who won the war. You won the war.” 

He didn’t know what to say after that because he had said he wouldn’t give a speech, and telling people to try and pick up their lives now and move on after only a month had gone by seemed wrong and Harry didn’t think he should be giving out advice he wasn’t even able to take yet himself. So he gave a solemn nod instead and stepped down to take a seat on the side next to Kingsley, who gave him a sombre, approving nod in thanks, which Harry returned. 

People continued to stare and he realised that this was only the beginning of speech-making, thanking wizards and witches who had fought against the Dark, and observing funeral rites. But for some reason, Harry had to admit that he had never felt so at peace in his life before that he could honestly remember. In fact, one of the first things he had taken note of when he had come back with the Weasleys was just how nice it was to be around people again. Not that Ron and Hermione hadn’t been great company this past year in hiding, and it had certainly had brought them closer together, like bringing down a mountain troll had in their first year, but in an even profounder way this time. But still, there were only so many comforts of home that could be packed in a wizarding tent when you were constantly on edge chasing down Horcruxes. And now, Harry could definitively say that he enjoyed – to a degree, of course –being fussed over, fed a proper home cooked meal, and given a nice, warm bed for a change. 

And despite all the funerals, mourning, and the steady realisation that he needed to start figuring out what he wanted to do for the rest of his life, now that was actually going to live past 17, he found it all rather nice. Calm. Relaxing. 

But then it had got a little old. 

Once the sombre tone had somewhat lifted and life did indeed come back to the Burrow and the rest of the Wizarding world as well, Harry found that sharing Ron’s cramped room with him, and Hermione most of the time, was not as fun as it had been when they were 12. 

Mrs Weasley was under the impression that if Harry was in the room with the other two that nothing unsavoury would occur, but in actuality, Harry had become more inclined to sneak out to the back fields and fly around by himself and give his friends their much needed time alone. But there was only so much he could do to occupy himself; it wasn’t as though he could go anywhere really without getting accosted by dozens of people wanting to shake his hand, give their thanks, and offer him their tokens of gratitude that ranged from offering to buy him a drink or even the latest broom, to money in their Gringotts accounts and proposals of marriage. It was ten times worse than his first jaunt to Diagon Alley with Hagrid, and he thought that was saying something. So he had spent most of his time in Muggle cities, for lack of nothing better to do and nowhere to go, much like his summer before sixth year when he had nothing better to do than ride the rails and get off at random stops. But that had got old pretty quickly too. 

He was practically ready to jump out of his skin by the time Professor McGonagall sent him a letter, inviting him to stay at Hogwarts for the rest of the break - now that it was somewhat habitable again – to boost the morale of those working on repairs and to talk to her about a proposal she had for him. 

Harry didn’t think he had ever packed his luggage so fast in his life –which again, was also saying something considering nearly every end–of–summer getaway from the Dursleys since he had started Hogwarts. He was tired of attending funerals, shaking hands, offering condolences and only getting congratulations and pats on the back in return. Overall, of not being sure what exactly people would be expecting of him now, and finding that he didn’t care anymore. 

With a quick, yet exceedingly warm goodbye to Mrs. Weasley, thanking her for everything, and a short ‘see you later’ to Ron and Hermione when they were less than paying attention, he Apparated to Hogsmeade. 

His following two months in the halls he had once called his only home had been bliss. He had full run of the kitchens, no classes, no schedule, and the only people he encountered were workers and the occasional professor. McGonagall was happy with any help he could give in the reconstruction and more than a bit relieved when he accepted the part-time position of DADA without thought or hesitation, not the smartest thing he’d ever done, in hindsight. But other than going over salvaged scrap notes of past DADA professors and planning out the term’s aims and objectives for the younger students, he spent most of the time lazing about like any normal 18-year-old boy should. 

If anyone asked, he wasn’t thinking about Voldemort, his time with the Dursleys, his last year hunting down Horcruxes, or anything depressing of the sort. He was swimming in the lake, glibly finagling extra food from the house-elves in the kitchens, trying to pull pranks back on Peeves in memory of Fred, and walking through the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid, when the need called, just to prove that he could. And he was perfectly happy with the way of things, thank you very much. It wasn’t like he was stopping his life or anything. Obviously he had to come back for his last year at Hogwarts so he could graduate, or so Hermione said. And so, the fact that he was choosing to see the school as the peaceful place it always had been as opposed to the blood-covered battle ground he had last seen it as, was his own prerogative. 

And he wouldn’t admit it, because it would make him sound too much like Hermione, but she had said something pretty profound and useful to him and Ron once, during one of her rants on how Hogwarts should offer some kind of classes in Muggle psychology to better understand how the average wizard uses magic…or something like that. As usual, he and Ron had ignored her for the most part while Harry lost spectacularly at a game of wizard chess late one weekend night. A time when miraculously, both he and Ron had finished all their homework and Hermione could thus focus on the latest book she’d just read instead of nagging on them to do their work before midnight. 

In any event, he wasn’t sure of the context, but she had said that the human brain can only maintain the adrenalin of an emotion for 30 seconds; after that, the mind perpetuates that emotion with thoughts and storylines it feeds itself to keep you angry, sad, or depressed; any emotion really. He wasn’t sure if he got the whole picture, as his mind had just barely snatched onto that part as he watched his knight be pulverised by Ron’s king. But what he took from that, a few years later, wondering why he still even remembered it as he had lain on the Weasley’s couch the last night of Fred’s vigil, was that if he chose to just not think about it, he wouldn’t be walking around with a cloud over his head all the time and he could actually concentrate on getting back to living his life again. He had moped and whined in fifth year – with justification, of course –been myopically obsessed with serious and dark things in sixth year –when again, he was proven right– and had been beyond the threshold of depressed and hopeless this past year, with a Horcrux around his neck half the time. The Horcrux thing was of course another issue entirely, as the locket had been speaking to its brother attached to Harry’s very soul and they had together been breathing foul language in his ear that made him tetchy on the best of days and exhaustingly morose on the worse. This year, though, this year would be different. It would be better. 

He wasn’t going to fixate on dark thoughts and let himself believe that he was all alone anymore. He was going to enjoy what he had left of his youth and make the most of his last year at Hogwarts; the rest of the world be damned. 

In all honesty, he didn’t think Hermione would approve if he told her of his method for coping, but currently it was working for him. And as long as he wasn’t under her constant probing and questioning on his health and how he was feeling about finally defeating Voldemort and what his plans were now that the world was Dark Lord-free again, he was okay. Ignorance was bliss, as the saying goes. 

But that was all before the new school year had started again. Apparently his friends had been under the preposterous impression that he needed some space to deal with everything, and that had been the only reason why they hadn’t been bombarding him with daily letters and Ginny hadn’t really been pressing for them to pick up their relationship where they’d left off. Aside from a few stolen kisses here and there, holding her close at Fred’s funeral for comfort, and clasping hands when he deemed appropriate in public, he had to admit that he’d been happy just keeping to himself, and not thinking about anything of any importance for more than 30 seconds. 

But it appeared that a little over two months was enough time to oneself and that was cue for everyone to swarm in like a pack of vultures, demanding to know how he was taking care of himself and when he was going to get help for the obvious mental and emotional damages he had suffered. Ginny, though, she was the worst of all. She had taken it upon herself to act as his personal healer first and girlfriend second. In fact, girlfriend would be much later, and was currently on an indefinite hiatus, she had informed him, until she deemed him to be properly coping with his messed up life, as he liked to put it. 

But as he soon had found out, those letters had only been the first warning of many more horrors to come. 

....


	2. The Stress and the Aftermath

Inspiration: _Crazy Like Us_ by Ethan Watters (Not mine, either; obviously)  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic, Inc., and AOL/ Time Warner, Inc., etc. No money is being made nor permission given. 

Chapterised by Imperial Mint; Thanks Bea!

.... …  
Hermione and Ginny’s Diagnoses for Incurably In Denial Heroes   
…Or…   
Harry’s and Draco’s Cure for Completely Imagined Illnesses   
… …

 

W.A.T.E. (Wizarding Affects of Traumatic Experiences) Syndrome:

Harry received the full brunt of his friends’ ‘concern’ the second weekend into the new term, while he had been sitting in front of the Gryffindor fireplace, putting together the next day’s lesson plans for the second and third years. The most difficult part, he had learned, was trying to keep in mind that the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw class could not be taught in the same way as the Slytherin and Hufflepuff class. And that went the same for any Slytherin and Gryffindor classes, which always needed more monitoring and a firmer hand than the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw classes, which required lessons that were interesting and engaging enough for the Ravenclaws while not too theoretical and over demanding for the Hufflepuffs. Trying to figure out how he would deal with each class separately while still teaching them all the same material they would need, Ginny plopped herself down onto the arm of the settee. She immediately leaned in to see what he was doing, while asking about his day, how his classes had gone, and what his next lessons were going to focus on. 

Having learned from Hermione long ago that the polite thing to do in a conversation with a woman was to answer in full sentences and then ask about her day in return, he was taken around the bend, when Ginny suddenly declared that she had figured out what was wrong with him. 

He took it all in stride, of course – after the initial shock that is of wide eyes and open mouth – and stated in as neutral a tone as he could manage that he didn’t think there was anything wrong with him. 

They, including Hermione and even Neville, had had this conversation dozens of times before. All the girls from his year that had returned were insistent that he needed some kind of counselling, that he needed to share his feelings more, and had taken to constantly telling him that it was okay to let it all out once in a while, now that it was all over, and no one would think any less of him if he ever needed to break down and just have a cry. 

The weird looks he gave them for their comments never seemed to have the desired effect, unfortunately. In fact, it usually had the opposite of the desired effect, as they seemed to think that it was his reaction to trying to bury his inner feelings of turmoil even deeper. They were convinced, for some reason, that Harry had the insane and unnecessary notion that he needed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Not that being marked in a prophecy portending you to kill a dark lord and save the world from the age of one would make anyone feel like that, but truthfully, Harry only wondered how they thought that any of this was any of their business. 

This nonchalance of Harry’s attempt to ignore them in an effort to make them go away – as had usually worked for rumours in the past – seemed to only have verified their beliefs and made them redouble their efforts, much to Harry’s chagrin. He had never wanted fame, and most definitely not pity, let alone personal advocates to his nonexistent mental illnesses. And in all honesty, being that the offenders were his own friends this time, people he cherished too deeply to risk ostracising over a silly misunderstanding like this, when really, they meant well, he didn’t know what to do. However, he now had to consider that perhaps coming back to work in the Gryffindor common room for old time’s sake was decidedly not a good idea, after all. He was sticking to his flat from now on; at least only Hermione and Ginny really could only reach him there. Then maybe, they would start to finally leave him alone – out of sight, out of mind, right? 

It had never before got to the point where they had really interfered with his life, though, until that night in the common room. He had been completely minding his own business and thinking only of his classes he had to teach the next day. And yet here was Ginny, making him rethink his daily nightly routine, all in an effort to just be able to keep the peace and quiet he had worked so hard to achieve. 

“I know you keep saying you’re fine, Harry.” Ginny dipped her head as she spoke in soothing, placating tones, like he was a wild animal sure to throw a tantrum. Well, that, or breakdown sobbing any minute. Did he always give that impression to people or was it just considered the universal expected reaction to someone who had just defeat a long-time enemy dark lord whose piece of soul you’d hitherto been carrying around your entire life? 

“But,” she continued in that all-knowing voice of hers that spoke she was actually older, wiser, and thus more mature and more knowledgeable than him, “the girls and I have been talking, and we think you’ve been so reclusive and reluctant to talk about it all because you’re suffering from W.A.T.E. syndrome.

At the blank, though honestly not all that interested, look she received, Ginny decided to elaborate. 

“Basically, we’ve noticed you’ve been suffering from memory avoidance; you never come to eat in the Great Hall anymore,” she said, sliding into the couch next to his seat and waving her hands around her head to prove her point. Harry wanted to point out that it would be weird for him, as both a student and a teacher, to sit either at the head table or at the Gryffindor table. And besides, he took most of his meals at his flat anyway, with Ron and Hermione, as did the rest of his lost year who didn’t have classes at regular times. Most of them lived in Hogsmeade or at their homes with their families, anyway, not in the castle. So why would they eat in the Great Hall? But he bit his tongue as Ginny didn’t seem to be about to let him get a word in edgewise anyway. 

“Also, I can tell you’re having intrusive thoughts.” 

Intrusive what? 

“You get distracted very easily whenever I’m talking to you and can’t even hold a proper conversation anymore. Not to mention the uncontrollable anxiety you’ve been exhibiting,” she ploughed quickly right on, ignoring his gruff mew of shocked protest. “You can barely come to the common room to hang out with the rest of us anymore without bringing along your lesson plans or class work, which is an obvious need to occupy yourself and your mind from manifesting these dark desires and worries of being around big crowds of people again after being alone for so long last year.

“And I know keeping occupied is a good coping mechanism you’ve been using – and I really do approve of your effort of trying to deal with it all – because I know how arousing it can be – speaking of fear and suppressed hysteria,” she emphasised, giving him a look that he better dare not take that statement the wrong way, “when victims are even slightly reminded of the event.” She threw up quotes with her fingers for “the event” and nodded her head to the syllables to really highlight the obvious. “Which is why I am taking the next step that I know you won’t, and breaking us up.” 

“What!?” Harry vaulted forward in his chair. Where had that come from? Sure they were on something of a hiatus, but that just meant they were giving each other space, right? 

Ginny continued on as though he hadn’t spoken. 

“For the time being at least. Until we have all this figured out. Until I am sure you are not trying to hide anything else, I am refusing to take our relationship to the next level. You’re not ready and I don’t want to force you and make you feel like you have to act the strong, brave hero for me. Because Harry,” she reached over, taking a slow and steady breath –finally, he thought in the back of his mind – as she gently clutched his arm and gave him a warm, and what she must have thought to be understanding, smile, “I’m here for you.”

He just stared at her, not sure how else to react to all this…well, frankly, load of crap. She could have just said she wanted to break up with him. Not that it wasn’t completely unwelcome – being with Ginny had felt more like a chore; an obligation to the Weasley family, ever since the end of the war. He’d thought it was just because he wanted to be left alone, but maybe it was more than that. 

Oh why was he having these revelations now? It really shouldn’t have taken his girlfriend thinking his slightly offstandish and detached behaviour of late to be some kind of wizarding disease as a reason for them to finally break-up. 

Ginny seemed to be waiting for a response and was looking at him apprehensively; eyes wide and worried. Harry shook himself from his thoughts and turned to the other matter at hand. They – Hermione and Ginny and the other Gryffindor girls– really were under the impression that he, Harry, was some kind of mental case. He didn’t know where Ginny was pulling these symptoms from, nor what part of her imagination she was drawing from to claim that he was exhibiting such things, but Harry thought it was more than likely that she should be the one to check herself into some mental ward if she was this delirious, not him. 

“You’re still getting those night terrors too, aren’t you?” she added in a loud whisper, when it was obvious he had nothing to say in response to her ‘little’ lecture and surprise break-up. 

Unfortunately, he was caught there. Yes, they did still come occasionally, but he had figured himself doing very well with forgetting about them when they happened. Nothing a nice cup of tea by the fire and perusal of a Quidditch magazine couldn’t fix. Occasionally he delved into the potions cupboard that Hermione kept stocked, for a Sleeping Draught, but only on very rare occasions. It had been easier to just slip a quick draught in the night when he had had the place to himself over the summer, but since Hermione and Ron had moved in with him –upon his insistent demand, of course. Ron had joked that they all needed to check that they could still live together and stand each other, but they knew it was more than that– it had become a bit harder to hide when the nightmares became too much to handle and it took more than willpower to block out bad thoughts. That was probably how Ginny knew he was still having them; Hermione kept an excellent record of their supplies – something they had no doubt all picked up from their never-ending camping trip from Hell, as he and Ron had dubbed it. 

Harry looked over at Ginny and wasn’t sure whether to feel pity or exasperation at the look of earnest in her eyes. Why did he have such caring, yet delusional friends and people who cared for him? He couldn’t very well tell them to go bugger off and mind their own business now, could he? 

“I just wanted to let you know that these are all classic systems of W.A.T.E., and that we’re going to do everything we can to help you overcome this and finally realise that this is your life to live and Vo-Voldemort,” she pushed the word out with determined muster, “can’t take that away from you anymore.” 

Harry just nodded, deciding that that was the best way to go for right now before he could gather more information on his supposed illness, which he did that very night as soon as he could scamper out of the common room without rousing too much suspicion. 

W.A.T.E., as he soon discovered, was Wizarding Affect of Traumatic Experiences, which was a very simple, yet more magical way of saying Muggle Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. But the wizarding version was much older and more complicated, and though Harry could only pick out one or two symptoms to relate to, he also didn’t know how to explain to the girls that he didn’t have this problem, without delving into more personal information that he wanted to keep just that: personal. 

So, instead, Harry took the coward’s route out, after Ginny and Hermione had both caught him half-dead one night after a long day, going to the cupboard for a Pepperup Potion for his recently developed cold. They had hammered him with questions and requests, most of which he hadn’t even listened to in his half-asleep state, which somehow hand ended with him agreeing to group therapy. Looking back on that hazy conversation, he had to admit that he still hadn’t seen that coming, and was a little shocked at the girls’ underhandedness in it all. 

Nonetheless, he was bound by his word. So every weekend for an hour and a half, he attended, by force and threat of never-ending Bat Bogey Hexes, the first few Helping Post-Battle Witches and Wizards Still Suffering Group. That one didn’t have a good acronym, unfortunately, which Harry thought gave him adequate enough reason to think the whole think stupid and pointless, and not worth his time. Not that the girls, Ginny and Hermione to be exact, thought that that excused him, but he was pretty sure Ron at least was on his side, even if he wouldn’t say so because of Hermione. 

Whipped, the poor boy. Not him, though; no. Harry could get out of this pointless game anytime he wanted. He just didn’t see the point in getting the girls angry at him right now. No, he would confront this head-on...another time. 

....

Therapeutic Method Number One:

“Hi, err, everyone.” A nervous looking wizard with early pattern baldness and a twitch in his left hand stood to introduce himself. “My, er, my, my, name is Bilferus Nockley, and I –I –I suffer from W.A.T.E..”

“Welcome, Bilferus,” the group echoed with their leader. Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Not that he didn’t believe that these witches and wizards really had suffered at the hands of Voldemort and his followers. Nor did he doubt that were indeed still afflicted with the war’s lasting effects. But this was his third meeting now and nothing of consequence had happened yet. Unless, that is, you count watching people trying and mainly failing to stutter out their experiences; wizards and witches just avoiding any and all human contact all together; or even some completely catatonic individuals being led in by family members at the beginning of the session and then led out the same way at the end of the night. 

It was depressing and heartbreaking and made Harry feel guilty, more than anything, to see all the people he had been too late to save. However, it was also clear from the moment he first walked down the stairs of the empty bookstore, in disrepair on the outskirts of Diagon Alley, and through the doors of this shifty group, most of whom were hiding their faces and muttering in corners to themselves, that he did not belong here. 

The meetings were stupid and pointless, as far as he was concerned. Definitely not worth his time. And to add frustration to boredom, he couldn’t even say that his possible, but truly nonexistent, ‘problems’ might have stemmed from the fact that he’d been chased by a madman his entire life. And then, that he had had to walk to his own death to be killed by said madmen, only in order so that he could kill the madman himself. Oh, and the fact that said madman also happened to be the most evilest, vilest, creepy, powerful dark wizard ever to have lived and Harry had offed him with a basic Disarming Spell. Take that! 

Course, it was more complicated even than that. Much more. The Dursleys probably could be tied up there in having messed him up both physically and mentally as a child, being his only example of family at a young age. Sirius’ short existence in his life unfortunately had only made his longing for family worse. And then not to mention his only mentor dying right in front of him two years ago, and later finding out that he barely knew the man at all. Oh, and then of course the fact that he, Ron, and Hermione hadn’t been out living like fugitives for almost a year for their health. But those were yet other little titbits of his past that he had to keep under wraps. Otherwise, he would basically be giving away the spelled illusions he’d so carefully put together, with some helpful Auror tips from Kingsley, who had also agreed that Harry might be suffering from W.A.T.E.. 

They were all ganging up against him! And as a Disarming Spell wouldn’t work on his friends, he had no choice but to sit and take it. For the moment at least, until he was able to devise a clever plan to throw them off the scent and leave him alone once and for all.

But luckily, it turned out that Harry didn’t have to wait for his patience to run out, nor for his own mind to think up a fiendishly clever plan. As it were, one of the members of the group was suffering from one of Voldemort’s spies taking a Polyjuice Potion to look like his youngest son, in order to gain inside Ministry information. He was afraid, understandably, that he didn’t really know who anyone was anymore and trust was next to nonexistent in his world. As it would be for any paranoid person, Harry had thought. 

He really did feel bad for these people whose families, homes, lives – everything – had been turned upside down and torn apart. But at the same time, he knew that everyone had suffered, and going through this whole programme when he couldn’t even share his experience at all, was useless, pointless, and a big, fat waste of time. So he had practically jumped for joy when the facilitator suggested a spell that would reveal all illusions on each person who walked through the door, in order to assure the man that everyone in this small group of HPBWWSS were who they said they were, and thus could be trusted. 

The look on everyone’s faces had been so hilarious when the spell had revealed that unassuming, usually bored-looking Luke Sedheart was actually Harry Potter himself. Harry was almost tempted to sit down and sit through another God-forsaken meeting just to get more of their reactions. Had it not been for the privacy policy, he had no doubt it would have been all over the Prophet: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Defeat the Dark Lord, in Therapy for Four Weeks. 

Needless to say: Harry: 1; Ginny/ Hermione: 0  
With a sigh and reluctant admittance of defeat, Ginny and Hermione had had to check that one off an unfortunately long list and decided to try again. 

As it were, out of the frying pan and into the oven.

....


	3. Talk It Out, Draw Your Feelings, and then just Vent

Inspiration: _Crazy Like Us_ by Ethan Watters (Not mine, either; obviously)  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic, Inc., and AOL/ Time Warner, Inc., etc. No money is being made nor permission given.   
Chapterised by Imperial Mint; Thanks Bea!

.... …  
Hermione and Ginny’s Diagnoses for Incurably In Denial Heroes   
…Or…   
Harry’s and Draco’s Cure for Completely Imagined Illnesses   
… …

 

Talk It Out:

The next assault from his so-called friends came a week after the disastrous attempt to combat his W.A.T.E. This time it was Hermione who accosted him late one night at their kitchen table where he had just been about to finish his last Potions assignment for that week. 

“Tea, Harry?” 

Harry looked up and then cast a quick Tempus Charm to see how late it was; half past twelve. “Um, no thanks. I should be getting to bed soon; class tomorrow morning. 

“Just a quick one?” Hermione looked hopefully at him; her hair was bushier than ever this time of night, making her look somewhat childish in her Muggle pyjamas of a long shirt Harry would take to guess had once belonged to Ron and a pair of shorts that reached mid thigh but were mainly covered by the shirt. 

He shrugged. Why not, what were a few more minutes, really? 

Hermione beamed beatifically at him as she cast a quick Warming Charm on the kettle and went about preparing two cups of tea. 

Harry cleared the table, piling all his books for tomorrow morning in the corner, so that Hermione could sit down next to him. 

“So how are your classes going?” Hermione stirred her tea slowly, looking at Harry as he added sugar and milk to his own. 

“Fine.” He shrugged and flicked his fingers dismissively at his first year students’ text book at the other end of the table. “I still say you’re better cut out for this teaching stuff, but for the most part I’m enjoying it.” No one had really questioned when Harry had been offered the position, making him believe that his friends were of the same mind as McGonagall, wanting the students to come back and believing him to be a capable enough teacher, as shown briefly in D.A. 

“Are you keeping up with your work load and lessons alright?” 

Harry nodded mechanically as he sipped his tea and shifted back in his seat, used to this line of questioning from Hermione, even though the answers never changed and she saw him everyday managing everything just fine. 

“I know. You’ve really been impressive in all this.” Hermione paused and looked down hard into her tea. 

Harry leant sideways in his chair to look through the doorway and cast a quick glance at the clock in the living room. He really needed to get to bed, his eyes were itching with exhaustion and he needed to be alert tomorrow – he had the first year Slytherins at nine. 

He started, “Hermione, I –”

“I just wanted to say you’ve been doing a really great job keeping busy like this, and it makes me so proud to see how much you’ve grown to be able to take on all this work and responsibility.” Hermione said all this very fast in a way that made Harry think she was cuing up for something much bigger; something he didn’t feel he wanted to stick around for, lest he find himself committing to yet another method of self-help therapy in his weak and vulnerable sleep-deprived state. But she didn’t give him a chance to do more than push back his chair before she ploughed on. 

“But all the same I want to remind you that we were there too. We were with you the whole entire year – from the beginning really – and even though we didn’t go into the Forest with you and no I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have part of _his_ soul in you, we do know most of what you went through and we can sympathise with the that. You’re not alone. We’re here for you – Ron and I – and – oh –it’s just –we can understand things that no one else ever could. 

“So really. And I mean it. If you ever want to just talk….” 

Harry pulled his lips back in an awkward grin and darted his eyes to the clock again, probably looking much like a caged animal. He was never exactly one to run away from a situation, but frankly, as he had learnt from past Crookshanks, S.P.E.W. and other incidents, Hermione was a force to be reckoned with when upset and Harry was only all too keen to stay in her good graces; even if he was only just toeing the line to do so. In situations like these, when he was too tired to think straight, he had learnt – the hard way, unfortunately – that it was best to just keep his mouth shut. 

“It’s just,” Hermione began again. “I know the whole group therapy session didn’t work out, and I _thought_ it might have been a good idea to allow you to hide your identity for once, that the anonymity might have encouraged you to speak out more. But maybe with the whole hiding out this past year that wasn’t such a good technique, but I did read somewhere, in several books actually, that just coming out and telling the truth, sharing how you’re feeling right now about the aftermath of it all, is more effective than stoic silence. And maybe self-help groups aren’t your thing. But,” she paused and looked at him pointedly, “all this,” she gestured wildly to all of him, “keeping everything to yourself – I know you’ve done it your whole life, been a hero and all –” 

And there was that word again, Harry thought. The word he had begun to despise some time halfway through his fourth year, deny in his fifth year, and basically ignore his sixth year and on. _Hero_. He really wished Hermione would get another diagnosis on him than that. 

“But it’s over now, Harry, and you don’t have to be one anymore. A hero, that is.” She looked at him, long and hard, as though daring him to finally say something; maybe break down and pour out his heart to her if she was lucky. But instead he just gazed right back for several minutes, his gaze bordering between defiant and bored, before deciding to call it quits and admit defeat for the night. 

“Well,” he said as he looked away, back down to his lukewarm tea and pursed his lips in another unsure grimace, “this is great, Hermione, but maybe later. I really need to get some sleep tonight before class in the morning. So… g’night.” He rose from his chair, dropping his mug into the sink and made his way across the room. As he was lifting one foot to the stairs, Hermione’s voice made him turn. 

“You know,” she called, “the earlier the victim begins to process, or _master_ , the memory of the trauma, the less likely the memory will form the kind of mental abscess that results in W.A.T.E. and other mental disorders!” She pleaded after him, no doubt hoping to strike some kind of chord in his sleep-hazed mind.

With his face turned away to the wall, he muttered, “Or it deludes ‘the victim’ into inventing a nonexistent disorder that ends up _creating_ a mental problem that was never there in the first place.” 

“What?” Hermione rose from her seat and Harry caught a hopeful look on her face. 

“Nothing. Sweet dreams, Hermione.” And he quickly bounded up the stairs to the room he shared with Ron, hoping that Ron would be asleep so he could just crash as soon as his head hit the pillow. He had really been hoping that considering all that they had gone through since becoming friends, that Hermione would be more understanding and not feel the need to press some kind of diagnosis on him every waking moment. She should know more than anyone else –like she had said, he thought ironically – that he had dealt with everything just fine in the past, and all he really wanted now was to be left alone. 

And who was to say his past methods of grinning and bearing it didn’t work? There was always a new horror on its way each time Harry was just getting over the past one. He’d not had a moment’s reprieve since he was left on the Dursleys’ doorstep really, and now was finally the time, relatively free of danger, when he could figure out how to deal with the long-term effects of being Harry Potter all by himself, thank you very much. Pfft, talk it out. What would they want next? A song and dance routine in front of the whole school? 

....

Play and Art Therapy:

Play and art therapy was the next big thing on Hermione and Ginny’s list of “How to Tackle Harry’s Big Issues”. They had come to the point where they no longer even tried to beat around the bush and instead just constantly pestered and harangued him about not dealing with his life in a healthy way until they got their way; or rather, until Harry reached the end of his fuse or admitted defeat in pure exhaustion. The latter was the most likely these days with all the last minute tests before holiday that he was both giving and receiving as well as his having taken on practically all the DADA classes, first years through seventh. 

Although all he really wanted right now was some support from his friends and idle chatter at the end of a long day, he had come to see that Hermione’s way of showing how much she cared was to, in a word, fix him. Like S.P.E.W., she had set her mind on this come hell or high water, and nothing Harry said or did was going to deter her. So, he had decided on riding each wave as it came, and putting off the big confrontation for later. He would wait until after graduation, after they had all figured out what they wanted to do after school and hopefully Hermione would have found her next big project by then. Yes, Harry knew in some part of his mind, the part he was doing his best to ignore, that he was being a bit of a coward. But between the classes he was taking and lessons he was given, he didn’t have a real social life anymore as it was. And he had even less time to come up with a plan that could effectively refute Hermione and Ginny’s steadfast logic that Harry was hiding from deep-set fears and mental problems that would undoubtedly come back to bite him later in life. 

Time. That was all he needed. And some more patience to boot. Good thing he was in a fairly good mood, after an excellent night’s sleep, when the girls sprang this next form of torture on him. 

Late one Saturday morning, Harry had been calmly enjoying his breakfast of bacon and eggs, still slightly sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired in his pyjamas, when Ginny had barged through the door and dumped a stack of butcher paper right on his half-eaten plate of food. He just barely managed to save his tea from the huge box of what looked like Muggle crayons being plunked down in front of him as well. It seemed that they weren’t even trying to be discreet about it anymore and had now taken to forcing these ‘treatments’ on Harry at any and all times of the day; whenever the fancy struck them and they thought Harry was at his most vulnerable, apparently. He didn’t even bother asking to finish his breakfast as he knew it was a lost cause the moment Hermione cleared the table with a flick of her wand. His stomach grumbled in protest, but no one seemed to take notice. More than likely they were ignoring him for all but signs of compliance. 

Harry felt utterly ridiculous when Ginny shoved a crayon in his hand – or, what he could see as the wizard equivalent of one, as it changed colour every few seconds, depending on his thoughts – and was told to draw what he was feeling. 

This was therapy? 

Two beats and an upward confused look at his two closest female companions, who had just taken their insanity to what he could only assume to be the next level, later, and Harry waited for the other shoe to drop. 

“This is part of play and art therapy, Harry,” Ginny informed him. “But we thought it would be easier to let you just draw your feelings than act out an inspirational dance for us, or something.” 

Harry looked down at the paper – the lesser of the two evils, apparently –and wondered if he would be able to finish his breakfast after this. Might as well get this over with and find out. At least he wasn’t expected to hang his work up on the fridge once he was done…that is, if they had a fridge, of course. 

So he drew himself on a broomstick, catching the Snitch and beating Ron to an imaginary finish line at the same time. Then he added a small picture of himself eating his breakfast in the corner, just for fun, before declaring himself done. He had never been the most accomplished of artists, but he was pleased with the outcome all the same, if he did say so himself. 

He held up the paper with an expectant grin as the girls, upon hearing his call, rushed in excitedly from the next room, where they had been waiting anxiously, wearing holes in the carpet as they paced around and swapped probable methods of how they would analyse and dig deeper meaning from Harry’s no doubt tortured and twisted drawings. 

When they saw his final product, full of bright colours and childish stick figures of smiling boys on broomsticks, they were not amused to say the least. 

....

Bridges Burnt and Rebuilt:

It was later that same day as the attempted art therapy that Harry found himself in the Hog’s Head, sharing a pint with a surprising new friend. Draco Malfoy. 

After Harry had returned his wand to him weeks after “The Battle” at Hogwarts, it had been Draco who had not only accepted it back without a scathing remark, but had also taken the step to thank Harry and offer his hand again. He had had a dubious pained smile on his face, like one who had just swallowed a whole bottle of Skele-Gro and was determined to tell anyone that he liked it anyway. But he had been most surprised when without further question, Harry had shook his hand in a firm grip and accepted. Draco hadn’t asked why, and Harry wasn’t ready to tell him all he had seen yet to have forgiven Draco, but they had tentatively decided to put their past childhood, schoolboy rivalry behind them and move forward in this new world their generation had created. 

Neither ever talked about the war, the surprisingly many number of times they had met spontaneously in several places off the beaten path. Most of those instances had been Harry trying to get away from his friends after their forceful attempts to ‘help’ him, or he had just been looking for a quiet place to do work and tweak his lesson plans without being disturbed. Draco never gave his reasons, but Harry assumed he wanted to get away just as badly. 

Regardless of how it came about, or the slightly rocky start of biting back instinctual insults and falling back into old modes of conduct, Harry and Draco had somehow become fast friends. They had more in common than they ever would have previously liked to admit and Harry was in sore need of a non-judgemental friend at the moment. 

“So what was the newest method of torture,” Draco had asked the moment Harry had stepped through the door of the pub, having owled Draco the moment he had managed to escape the flat and the girls’ infuriatingly annoying calm and insistent pleas for Harry to end this stage of denial and let them help him move on. He hadn’t been sure how Draco would respond to being formally asked to hang out as opposed to their usual impromptu meetings, but was pleased nonetheless to see Draco offering a drink and a smile the moment he walked through the door. 

Harry had slammed his body into the seat next to Draco’s and picked up the mug already waiting for him. When out from under the shadow of his father’s pureblood philosophy and the obviously helpful come realisation that Magic is Might; Might Makes Right, was not, in fact, commendable, Draco had turned out to be an alright bloke. Not nearly as confident or sure of himself as he once was, but that was something Harry was sure he would get back with time and further distance from the war. 

“Play and art therapy,” Harry grunted, dropping his head forcibly into his arms and groaning loudly, now muffled, in frustration. “If I didn’t have a problem to start with, I certainly will by the time those two are finished ‘diagnosing’ me.” 

Draco offered companionable silence and quiet agreement, letting Harry have a moment of peace to himself. 

Draco finally said, “Are they still on W.A.T.E. or have they moved onto something else?” 

Harry shook his head, but finally lifted it from his arms, and answered, “Still W.A.T.E., I think. Not really sure anymore. Hermione has taken to mixing Muggle with magic and half the things are of her and Ginny’s own creation. They’ll be the death of me, just you wait. By the end of the year, the _Daily Prophet’s_ headlines will read,” he swept his hands apart in the air above to mime the title, “Boy Who Lived to Defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Only to Die at the Hands of His Over-Protective, Misguided, Delusional Friends.” 

The corners of Draco’s mouth twitched upwards for a moment before he gave up all pretence and let forth a deep chuckle, which turned into an open-mouthed laugh at Harry’s affronted glare. “You really think the title will be that long? I’d think they’d shorten it for the sake of a longer piece; Harry Potter Dead in Tragic Case of Overbearing Friends.” He paused and pressed his forefinger to his lips. “Hmm. That might be a little too long as well. We’ll have to work on it so I’ll be ready when Rita Skeeter comes around asking for information to write your obituary.” 

“Ha ha. My sides are splitting. Really.” Harry turned his glare to his Firewhisky and contemplated taking another burning sip. 

“Glad to add a bit of humour to your obviously stressed out, mentally burdened life.” Draco grinned unashamedly and took a swig of his own drink. “So, have you finished that ridiculous essay for Slughorn yet? You know, the one I think we wrote already in fifth year?” 

Harry nodded, glad for the change of topic and ability to rant about school work like a normal teenager. The essay in question really did seem a waste of time, after all, and he and Draco whiled away the rest of the afternoon griping about teachers, joking, swapping innocent stories, and talking about what they planned to do after they graduated. 

And Harry realised, once he’d started walking home after he and Draco had parted ways outside the pub, amicably drunk, he hadn’t laughed so hard and had so much fun in many, many months. 

They definitely needed to do that more often. As long as Draco was willing, Harry guessed he might just make it through this year alive and with his sanity relatively intact.

....


	4. Holiday Getaways, Relying on Religion, and Learning to be a Role Model

Inspiration: _Crazy Like Us_ by Ethan Watters (Not mine, either; obviously)  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic, Inc., and AOL/ Time Warner, Inc., etc. No money is being made nor permission given.   
Chapterised by Imperial Mint; Thanks Bea!

.... …  
Hermione and Ginny’s Diagnoses for Incurably In Denial Heroes   
…Or…   
Harry’s and Draco’s Cure for Completely Imagined Illnesses   
… …  
A Holiday Getaway:

"If you wanted to take a trip, Harry, travel, get away from here for awhile, we'd understand," Hermione told him in what he assumed she thought to be a very understanding, soothing voice one day after an evening Transfiguration class.

Harry looked at her as if she had just sprouted wings on her neck and suggested he study the medicinal uses of Billywig venom for the rest of his life; which, in comparison to what she just said, seemed the more likely.

"Excuse me?" He blinked, hoisting his bag further up on his shoulder as they walked through tricky corridors and doors hidden behind false walls and tapestries on their way to the entrance hall.

"I'm serious." She paused, finger to lip and eyes darting to the side in thought. "Well, maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to let you go off on your own. You might take to becoming some sort of hermit and we'll never see you again. That would be dreadful." Her face fell as the implications of all she'd just said really began to sink in.

Harry was a bit more than insulted to hear her offhandedly assess that outcome as though it were a possible forecast of bad rain for a week.

"But travel might do you good," she continued on without looking at him, shaking her head as though discarding her last thought. "Get you out of the country, stay in an actual hotel – no tents – and just enjoy yourself; maybe some anonymity for a change." She smiled encouragingly at him, reaching over to clasp her fingers around the inside of his elbow, which he had bent to carry both his and some of Hermione's books. "Just think about it," she said sweetly, in a voice Harry had come to recognise as her 'Ginny and I have been conspiring to fix you again' tone. "I really am serious."

And she was; Harry could see that clear as day. However, her reasoning was as clear as butter to him at the moment, which was to say not at all, obviously.

"You do know that we're only approaching half-term and was it not you who insisted I graduate Hogwarts properly? Not to mention the fact that I have a whole _subject_ to teach!" He shrugged his shoulders emphatically, seeing as the books and Hermione were occupying his arms to keep from him gesturing further.

"I think I have a few obligations keeping me from taking a long-term holiday at the moment, don't you?" He said this more sarcastically than was probably deemed appropriate, but it was late, he had taught all day only to have to skip dinner because he had had to stay after with a student to explain something over again, and then had come straight to Transfiguration class and nearly fallen asleep as McGonagall went over something Harry could have sworn they had already learnt in fourth year – or was it fifth? Ron had the right idea with being sick today. Needless to say, he was tired, and really did not have the time nor the patience for another of Hermione and Ginny's harebrained schemes to get him to confess his troubled soul.

"I do realise you've made several serious commitments for this year already, of course. I'm merely suggesting that it might be a good idea in the near future, once you're sure, to take a bit of a break from it all," she gestured vaguely to everything around them with her free hand, "and have a nice long holiday for yourself."

He stared at her, his face still worked up in disbelief, which he did nothing to hide. He was sure he didn't possess the energy to put on any kind of polite front anyway at the moment.

"Are you sure you're Hermione?" he deadpanned. "You're not someone using Polyjuice trying to trick me into something, or… something?"

She smacked him on the arm with her other hand and accompanied it with a serious, don't-mess-with-me glare Harry knew to stay clear from.

"I think it would be good for you to get away from everything that happened here and just enjoy yourself for a change," she stated carefully with an air of finality that brooked no argument, so Harry just nodded – _without_ rolling his eyes – and led the rest of the way home in silence. At least he wouldn't be expected to act on this one immediately and be berated for when he didn't put more effort into making it work. Hopefully they would have forgotten about it by the time the end of the school year rolled around.

Hopefully.  
.. ..

Relying on Religion:

The few days after the suggested holiday had been a small bliss for Harry. As long as he gave the impression that he was thinking about the idea, occasionally dropping places of names he would like to visit, the girls left him relatively alone. He had even brought the idea up with Draco during another night of shared camaraderie in yet another nondescript, unpopular place where both he and Draco were spared the multitude of stares and interruptions. Draco, surprisingly, instead of laughing along with Harry, had actually agreed that it wasn't such a bad idea.

In fact, maybe it would be a good thing to do after graduation, he had said. Get away from the stress, expectations, over-bearing, misguided friends with their hearts in the right places, and tenuous future plans. And so began Harry and Draco's Trip around Europe, a bit of Asia, and possibly South America. The rest of the world could catch up with them on their own time, because Harry was going to do the exact thing Hermione feared – run away – and he was going to enjoy it. With Draco Malfoy, nonetheless. Oh would the Wizarding world be in for a big surprise.

But Harry's slightly elated status of tricking the girls as their own game was not to last.

Hermione's relative silence was broken a few day later on a Sunday evening while he and Ron were playing a round of wizarding _Cheat_ , or Hand of Mordred, as it was called. Only, in the wizarding version the cards themselves liked to change on you and change their ranks, usually after you'd already put them down, at which point the other player's cards liked to urge their holder into yelling, _'Hasshram!_ to call the other player out on their lie. Obviously the cards were really in no one's favour, as they tended to want to call out the other player on every turn. If anything, it just served to confuse and frustrate all players until someone lost face or the game ended. Harry particularly liked the complete lack of skill it took to play this game – namely, Ron couldn't win with strategy by any means – and how he mainly had to rely on his infamous Gryffindor luck, which, in all fairness, wasn't always necessarily _good_.

They were halfway through their third game – the odds were even and this last one would decide the winner for the night –when Hermione, who had declared no interest in playing, preferring to read up further on a homework assignment she had finished last week, came over to sit on the back of the sofa and let out a dramatic, frustrated sigh.

Harry had just laid down a card, naming it the white-winged dragon –tricky move, as there was only one – after Ron had just put down two grey fomorrohs. Both boys looked up as one, waiting for Hermione to start complaining about a lack of a certain book in her library or to explain a difficult spell she was trying to learn, but was failing to understand an integral, twisted, convoluted part that always made little sense to the boys.

"Oh, don't mind me." She waved them away. "Keep playing your game. I'm only here to watch."

Harry and Ron exchanged a look. She was never there to just watch. They waited, looking at her expectantly. It was, after all, better to stop and get it over and done with now than for her to interrupt mid-move to start into lecture mode because she couldn't contain herself any longer.

"Well fine," she conceded and swung her legs over to plant herself between the two, just after Harry had the foresight to collect the cards and put them carefully on the side table.

She turned to face Harry and gave him a calculative stare. He blinked and raised an eyebrow and did his best to take the brunt of her examination, though that didn't stop him from fidgeting and playing with his fingers and cuticles. Finally, he blinked, hoping she would admit some kind of victory and move on. But that seemed to deter her none and she kept staring until Harry finally burst out, "What?"

Hermione didn't seem putout in the least by his shouting, but she finally lessened on the staring, sat back and said with an explosive sigh, "Oh this would be so much easier if you were religious, Harry."

Now that was something he hadn't been expecting. Obviously they were back to his – stage whisper – _problems_. And need he remind his apparently deaf audience: nonexistent problems.

But in response, Harry just raised the other eyebrow and kept his thoughts mostly to himself. These talks had become more like annoying mosquitoes in the summertime that you had to keep swatting away every few seconds, but nothing you did, neither moving to another spot nor swatting all the harder, ever seemed to deter them.

So, again, he went with it, while always looking for the soonest opportunity to shy out and make his getaway.

Sighing, he was not about to point out that even if he was so spiritually inclined, he doubted the Dursleys would ever have humiliated themselves to the neighbouring society as to allow him to practice any kind of ceremonial ritual while he lived under their roof. Be it going to mass to sing hymns, bowing on a mat five times a day and chanting, or sacrificing goats and chickens on a sacred altar to worship many gods.

But now that he thought about it, he wondered how the rest of the wizarding community would take it if he decided to take up witchcraft of the Muggle variety. He could start chanting in tribal African language while in deep meditation and throw salt around the room when he declared he felt an evil presence. He would probably be given a wide berth, much like Trelawney.

Actually, how would the ghosts react if he threw salt at them and cried, "Be gone, spirit!"? He smiled at that and started mentally making a list of things he could do to make everyone think Voldemort had taken a piece of his mind as well as his soul when Harry had defeated him. He wondered if people would take him seriously in his claim that having died and come back to life put him on the same level as Jesus Christ. Were there any wizarding Catholics? He knew the Dursleys had been non-practicing Protestants. In fact, now that he thought about it, he knew very few wizards who were religious; and those who were were fanatically so. Did religion go against the wizarding way? Everyone seemed to see Merlin as the highest power, up there in Avalon. Maybe he, Harry, could be the next name whispered and cursed in reverence on everyone's lips.

_Harry Potter's glasses!_

He snorted loudly before he could stop himself and had to clap a hand over his mouth to stop himself from bursting out laughing.

Humour was not what Hermione had hoped to see though, apparently, and he was immediately chastised for both not listening to her latest idea _and_ for not taking his recovery seriously. Again. And then she launched into a whole lecture on other religions and cultures' healing methods and how different people of different faiths coped with certain setbacks in their lives in different ways. At least, that was what Harry thought her little diatribe was mainly about. He had tried surreptitiously finishing the game with Ron behind Hermione's back, but unfortunately she caught them only a few minutes in and angrily sent them both up to bed for the night like a couple of children needing to be dealt with after being caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.

Later that night, after they had abandoned their game for a good night's sleep, Harry told Ron his ideas in the private darkness of their room. Though he had to explain a few things at first, Ron, at least, found the whole thing terribly amusing and they had had to stuff their blankets in their mouths to stifle their laughter, lest Hermione come in and demand to know what was so funny. Harry was just glad that he had someone to appreciate his sense of humour.

.. ..

Be a Role Model:

"Alright," Hermione said as she took his arm and dragged him away from their group down an alleyway. Their friends had just decided to split up to go shopping in different parts of the village after a long, catch-up lunch at a small, hole-in-the-wall café with absolutely delicious steak and kidney pudding.

"I've decided to just be frank and come out with it." She gripped his arm and shook her bushy hair out of her face. They were the only two going in this direction, unfortunately. Well, actually, he had planned to go after Ron and Dean to visit George at his branch shop just down the road, but Hermione had grabbed him and pulled him aside down a different road before he'd even gone a step.

"I know we keep coming at you with all these solutions, and you've really not been into any of them. I mean, you've not taken any of them seriously, and honestly, who can blame you?"

Harry held his breath, not willing to lure himself into a false hope that she was finally admitting defeat and giving up on trying to force him into some kind of mental disease symptom pool. It was just too good to be true. So anticlimactic. Not what he had –

"But you shouldn't feel embarrassed about coming out and admitting you have a problem."

Nope. Not what he had thought at all.

"The war affected you," Hermione continued, oblivious to the look of despair on Harry's face, like someone had just said Christmas had come early and then laughed in his face, calling it off as a big joke and jeering at him for believing it. "It affected everyone. Unless they were hiding under the only unturned rock in all of Britain, no one came out unscathed – you least of all."

Lovely; again he was singled out as needing more help than all of England's wizarding population. Probably more than all of Britain's witches and wizards combined; Hermione was just being nice by leaving that bit out. He looked over at a window display of fanciful books and other wizarding paraphernalia. The holidays were only a few weeks away, the main reason why they had decided to go shopping today, and he only wished he could just enjoy the time with friends and not have something looming over his head for once.

Harry sighed and looked down at his feet scuffing lightly at the snow melting steadily on the path, a quirk from the magic of Hogsmeade, no doubt. Doing his best to stay quiet and hope that Hermione would follow suit, he lifted his eyes back up to the shop windows and began rechecking his mental list of whom he needed to buy for and where he should start. He vaguely heard Hermione continuing to jabber his ear off at his side, but somehow managed to herd her into an ink and quill emporium with a firm hand on her arm.

It isn't until they had left the third shop that Hermione let go of his arm to adjust the bags in her other hand, at which point Harry started looking around for someplace where he could get a drink.

"Harry James Potter, have you been listening to a word I've said this entire time?"

"Huh?" He looked up, caught the look of murder on Hermione's face, and realised too late that that was not the thing to have said. Shoot.

Hermione looked to be visibly trying to calm down and prevent herself from letting loose on Harry like she so obviously wanted to. Harry was all too 'lovingly' fond of these little mother-hen tirades, and just wondered when had everyone decided that he needed a parent all of a sudden rather than a friend. He wished Hermione _would_ blow up in his face and yell at him for not being a good friend and listening, rather than trying to hold herself back because she thought he was a fragile child that needed to be dealt with in a very special, delicate way.

His disgruntlement must have shown at least partially on his face because a moment later Hermione had the sympathetic, friendly smile on her face again.

She smiled, a little forcibly, and said slowly and clearly, "I was saying how I know you don't like to be selfish; but really, coming out and admitting this war affected you and you're not sure how to deal with it on your own will actually help the rest of the wizarding community as well. Your confession would give everyone else out there dealing with their own problems from the war the courage to admit that they need help too." She paused and reached out to grip his arm again and then steered him gently forward, further down the road, as she continued talking, shopping obviously the furthest thing from her mind at the moment.

"St. Mungo's is teeming with Mind Healers ready to do damage control, but too many people are still in denial to come accept the help. Can you imagine what this could do to our country, to the wizarding society even, in the long run, if we don't ever deal with the mental impact of this war?"

And then she was off again, on the long-term effects of mental illness, denial, somatic symptoms, and crazy people being locked inside white walls, in general.

Harry silently rolled his eyes as he programmed his mind to nod at intervals and keep an open expression on his face as he tuned Hermione's lecture out once again and set his mind on other simpler things, like wondering who would make it to the Quidditch World Cup this year and where he and Draco would go first on their post-graduation world-tour trip.

At least he'd got _some_ of his shopping done.

.. ..


	5. Hearing Voices, Seeing Mind Healers

Inspiration: _Crazy Like Us_ by Ethan Watters (Not mine, either; obviously)  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic, Inc., and AOL/ Time Warner, Inc., etc. No money is being made nor permission given.   
Chapterised by Imperial Mint; Thanks Bea!

.... …  
Hermione and Ginny’s Diagnoses for Incurably In Denial Heroes   
…Or…   
Harry’s and Draco’s Cure for Completely Imagined Illnesses   
… …

Hearing Voices, Seeing Mind Healers:

“The upheavals of wartime tend to bring out the worst in people. Only the ancient Greeks really can persist to say anything good about it, and they have the most extensive historical records of its subsequent effects.” 

Harry jumped out of his skin at the sound of Hermione’s voice right next to his ear. He had thought he’d been walking towards the gates of Hogwarts alone this early Tuesday morning, but apparently Hermione had snuck up behind him without his noticing. It must have been the heavy coat of snow on the ground, silencing the world around them that had cloaked her approach. That, and the fact that Harry had been lost in his own little world, hands plunged deep into his pockets and eyes out of focus, cast downwards to the snow. The holidays were starting in less than a week and he could already feel the energised, anxious air that surrounded Hogwarts as students waited in excited anticipation for the last day of classes. 

“What?” He stopped in his tracks and turned to see Hermione with her bag over her shoulder and a few scrolls under her arm. Harry assumed she was planning to spend the day in the library again. But he wondered whether she had she been talking to him just now or just muttering aloud to herself about some book she wanted to look up. In any case, none of it had made a lick of sense. 

Hermione moved to his side to hook her free arm with his. It seemed to be her favourite move of keeping him exactly where she wanted him and preventing him from running away. 

Making a point of checking his watch, he noted that he still had an hour or so before class. He usually liked to get there early and set up. But even though he had little to set up for his first class today, he didn’t want to spend his nice, quiet time before class having his ear talked off by Hermione. And Merlin knew what would happen once he made it through the doors and into the entrance hall. Ginny would most likely be in the Great Hall, hear Hermione’s voice out of the hundreds of other voices milling about for breakfast, and rush to join Hermione on her soapbox to give Harry their latest lecture of how he _should_ be taking care of himself. He knew he should have gone the way of the tunnel by the manticore; something had been niggling in the back of his mind, urging him to do so. But he had defiantly told himself that he wanted to walk out in the snow and enjoy the crisp, fresh air before starting class this morning. What a fool he had been! 

“Don’t worry,” Hermione shook her head, not quite getting the hint of his exaggerated time check, “I’ll have you to your class in time. I only wanted to catch you this morning before I started at the library and did some more reading for our Transfiguration homework.” She hugged him closer to her side to ward off the cold. “I was also thinking about what Professor Babbling said about the similar origins of a set of runes in different cultures on completely opposite sides of the world at different times in history. But anyway, while I was working that out last night I suddenly remembered a book I’d read ages ago over a summer for some extra reading about the similarities and differences between Muggle PTSD and Wizard W.A.T.E. It was quite fascinating, really, how some effects translate, but most do not. I mean, Muggles have only been aware of PTSD for the past 50 years or so, but wizards were well aware of it for centuries now. It changes of course with the times, but –”

Harry decided that he really did not want to hear any of this. If he hated the forced prognoses, then he absolutely despised the lead-up spiel of how exactly Hermione had come to this next, amazingly insightful and effective diagnosis. So he turned his mind to other, more fun things; maybe he would catch Draco after Potions today or even finagle his way over to his side of the room before lesson began and find a way to work with Draco before Hermione came over and took charge of the day’s assignment. That would be a nice. 

“What do you think, Harry?” 

Harry was rudely jarred back to the present with a snap. He blinked and looked back over at Hermione. “Uh. Yeah.” He hoped that was the right the answer she was looking for. Also that it didn’t land him with another project he needed to take on to cure his ‘problems’. He wasn’t too hopeful on the last one. 

Hermione gave him a dubious look, like she wasn’t sure whether or not to believe his innocuous expression, half covered by the red scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose. After a moment she gave up and looked away. “Anyway, as I was saying, stress has been known to even be the onset for schizophrenia. The wizarding world has its own name for it, but with the integration of so many Muggle-borns within the past century, schizophrenia has actually become the more common diagnosis. But I digress,” 

Harry turned his head to roll his eyes.

“In addition to schizophrenia,” Hermione got back on track, sounding once again like she’d swallowed the text book, “stress has also been known to bring about psychotic episodes. And especially in such a volatile time in history, these extraordinary and unique cases are much more common now than ever. Like I was saying a few minutes ago.” She paused, took a breath and then began dragging him up the steps of Hogwarts. “The upheavals of war are a ripe time to bring out the worst in people, sometimes with very unexpected results from people who seem completely well adjusted with their lives. So you can imagine that for someone already,” she bit her lip and cast around for a word that Harry was sure she was trying to replace for ‘delicate’, “of a certain disposition…well, they tend to be the easiest and most likely of targets.” 

Harry wasn’t buying it. It seemed the more dangerous things he did, the more people took pity on him and assumed him not right in the head as a result. Instead of believing him when he said he had had no choice but to _act_ in those dangerous situations to stay alive, the accepted outcome was that he got himself into these situations because of his delicate, volatile nature. In other words, he was a hair’s breadth away from cracking, going round the bend, completely off his rocker. He clenched his fists and opened his mouth, ready to give Hermione a lecture of his own, when Hermione beat him to it. 

“I mean, first with hearing the voices in second year,”

“What! That was because I’m a Parselmouth! That has nothing to do with this,” he cried, outraged. How dare she bring up his ability to speak Parseltongue! She knew that was still a slightly sore subject with him. And hearing snakes because he could speak their language was a far cry, he thought, from labelling him with a Beautiful Mind. He told Hermione as much – glad that he didn’t have to explain his allusion to Hermione, because that would have slowed him down just as he was building up steam – and was just about to storm away to his classroom in an indignant huff when he noticed that he had been outsmarted. Yet again. 

They were already in the entrance hall and only a few feet away stood Ginny, wand out and looking ready for anything Harry thought he could throw. 

Ginny opened her mouth to introduce what he only could assume to be their next idea, but Harry turned his head away defiantly and threw Hermione the dirtiest glare he could muster. 

Hermione sighed exasperatedly and said, “Oh don’t look at me like that, Harry.” Hermione frowned at Harry’s outraged and betrayed stare he cast between the two of them. They had planned and timed this perfectly, knowing he got here early in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays. “You know we’re only doing this for your own good. You’ll thank us for it later, I promise you.” 

Harry highly doubted that anything they were thinking up would actually be beneficial for him, but he wisely kept his mouth shut, having learned where arguing and denying had got him in the past – nowhere. 

With any luck, by the time this had all blown over and they finally realised that there was _nothing wrong with him_ , he would still have his best friend and maybe a girlfriend. Though, if he was honest with himself, maybe just another friend of the best-friend’s sister variety that he cared for deeply like family. Only, in any event, he hoped for slightly saner friends overall. But until then, he would rely on the fact that the other attempts of Hermione and Ginny playing Healer hadn’t lasted long, individually at least, and this one, whatever it was, would be over soon too. 

Gritting his teeth, and being mindful of his students milling about the three of them, looking on with curious glances, Harry closed his eyes, threw back his head and grunted his assent. But he didn’t want to hear any of it now; he had a class to get to. 

He was beginning to reconsider his initial objections against alienating his friends by avoiding them and all their less-than-helpful suggestions. He was pretty sure that at the end of it all he would at least still have Ron, in secret and unknown to Hermione, of course, and Draco wouldn’t be leaving him any time soon either. And really, after his fifth year of what was admittedly, in hindsight, somewhat self-imposed isolation, two good friends were definitely better than none.

It was a testament to how thin his patience was running that he vowed this would be the very last self-help thing he would do as he walked through the wards of St Mungo’s in search of the office of one Mind Healer Bethany Sweetbrotter. According to Ginny, Healer Sweetbrotter was more than happy to examine Harry privately and under complete secrecy, with all the discretion of her field. Harry figured she was probably just ecstatic that she got the Hero of the Wizarding World all to herself for two hours every Saturday, so why would she want to share him and open the floor for others to come in and ogle? His theory was thrown off kilter, however, when he walked into her tiny office on the seventh floor and was met with a woman who could challenge McGonagall for the most serious, stern expression that would make anyone they meet immediately start confessing their gravest sins. 

Her flaming red hair, which Harry was sure rivalled Ginny’s, was pulled back in a tight ponytail that wrapped around itself in one tight curl to midway down her back. She appraised him smoothly from where she stood erect behind her desk, hands cupped together in front of her, bunching the material at the front of her robes slightly, which were a striking lime green with a band of light blue around the collar to distinguish her in her field.

Harry stepped past the threshold warily, wincing as the door snapped shut behind him, locking him into his doom for the next two hours. He stealthily moved his hand to check his wand in his pocket, while his eyes moved quickly to examine the room. Plain, pale blue walls, like the rest of the ward, with one wall made entirely into a bookshelf, filled with odd names, many in foreign languages Harry couldn’t even read half of. The other two walls were left blank except for two portraits; one, portrayed a circle of witches performing what Harry could only guess to be Mind Healing on a prone young wizard, lying dazed on a stone table as he was carefully poked and prodded by said witches –which hardly gave Harry the confidence to think he would be remotely comfortable here – and the other portrait was of an ancient, old man wrapped in antiquated, deep purple robes, who appeared to be dozing at the moment. To the left side, but what in reality took up most of the room, was a large desk that held only a green jar made out of sea glass with a single quill in it, a pot of ink, and some weird blue object that somewhat resembled a distorted rose, lying beside the Healer’s wand. 

Harry wasn’t even sure where to sit or if he was expected to keep standing or even if they were meant to stay in this room for the assessment. But with a light touch to her wand, Healer Sweetbrotter conjured a hard, wooden chair right in front of the recently closed door and indicated for him to take a seat with a nod of her head.

“I am Healer Sweetbrotter. You will address me as such and nothing else.” She was blunt and awfully sure of herself, Harry thought. But he had faced wizards and witches with twice her bark and knew how to bite back, so he wasn’t worried. Still, he curled his arm into his wand and prayed he wasn’t stuck in this room with a lunatic for the next two hours. 

“You may be the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’ to everyone else, but inside these walls you are no different than any other of my patients that I treat and I will not be awarding any special treatment for you. Are we clear?” 

Now she reminded him of a mix of McGonagall and Snape – horrid combination, really – and just barely found it in himself to nod politely, with what he hoped was a compliant expression on his face. Truth be told, he was already wondering how he could work her methods against her. He wanted to be out of this chair and away from this room forever by the end of the hour, let alone two. 

“Now, I understand you tried group therapy prior to this.” She didn’t even give him a chance to reply before ploughing forwards again. “Well I’m hardly surprised that didn’t work. Group therapy rarely does. It’s a thin comfort for those incapable of obtaining the help they require and fundamentally puts thin gauze over a head wound instead of treating it properly. Of course you’ll bleed through!” She clucked her tongue, not even trying to hide her derision for such people who went that route, and Harry found himself little inhibited to point out that he had been forced into that route. But he held his tongue all the same and waited for her to actually start saying something productive that she had so promised he could only find here, one on one, and not in his barbaric group therapy sessions. 

But as it was, Healer Sweetbrotter was much more intent on lecturing him on why he should have come to someone like her in the first place and rarely paused for a breath between rants to allow Harry to even respond. He saw no openings in any event to find an escape route, and forced himself instead to just sit back and think of England as he let her obsessively boring preaching wash over him. 

There might have been some kind of help squeezed in there, between her ridiculing group therapy and telling him all she _knew_ about how he _thought_ he was taking care of himself and just how wrong he was in thinking that leaving his problems untreated would do him any good in the long run. But he didn’t remember any. 

Three and a half hours later, he was none the wiser on what she actually planned to _do_ to help him, but was certainly all the more border for it from waiting so long to find out. Finally, deciding that enough was really enough at this point and he would take this one head-on if he had to, Harry stood up, cutting her off mid-word. 

He inclined his head slightly to the side and tried to work his face into more of a resigned grin than the grimace he knew was coming out, before saying, “Thank you for your time. I’m sure your methods work far better than any group therapy; however, I do not think I will be needing to employ any of them for myself. Good day.” And with that, he vanished the chair he had had his bottom glued to for the last three and a half hours, and opened the door with an almost gleeful relief, mentioning over his shoulder, as he walked out, to send the bill to Hermione Granger. 

He Apparated back to Hogsmeade the moment he was clear, silently commenting to himself that he hoped Ms Sweetbrotter was not typical of her field, because he seriously doubted anyone could be helped in quite that manner. He also hoped that Draco wasn’t busy right now and would be up for a drink, because he needed a completely different kind of therapy to get the past several hours out of his head and memory for good. 

.....

Calling it a Day:

There was a small coffee shop right next door to a Quidditch Supply shop, where Harry met Draco the first weekend of holiday. All the students were gone, Ron and Ginny had gone home early to see Charlie, who was coming to visit for Christmas, and Hermione had decided to spend the long break with her parents, who were still in Australia. Harry planned on staying in Hogsmeade the entire holiday, except for the three day celebration from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day; those he would spend at the Weasleys’, but otherwise he was going to enjoy some time to himself. 

Draco, who was still living at the Manor, Master of the Manor now that his father was in Azkaban for life, had been the one to contact Harry this time. Harry spotted him at the back of the coffee shop, leaning back casually in his chair, with an arm swung over the back, and his face turned away from the crowds. Harry took the chair opposite him and waited for Draco to acknowledge his presence; the other man seemed thoroughly lost in thought and Harry didn’t want to disturb him if he could help it. He wanted to ask Draco’s advice and figured it would be best to get his friend in as good a mood as possible. 

Finally, after several minutes had passed and Harry had already ordered them two coffees, guessing as best he could at what Draco liked, Harry decided there was no more use pretending he wasn’t here. 

“Knut for your thoughts?”

“Hm?” Draco started and glanced up and over at Harry, looking genuinely shocked to see him sitting there. 

“Losing your touch, I see,” Harry joked, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. 

“Of course not,” Draco bit back with the air of a snobbish aristocrat. He sat up, a bit stiffer in his seat now and looked over Harry’s shoulder at the bar in the back, completely avoiding his gaze.

Taken aback at the unexpected hostility Harry only assumed with the old Draco, he suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Draco’s holier-than-thou manner of suddenly ignoring Harry’s presence entirely, distinctly reminded him of his fifth year, every time Dumbledore refused to look at him for fear of bringing out Voldemort in his eyes. It made Harry feel dirty, dark, unclean and unwanted all over again. He couldn’t explain why; he didn’t hold Draco in the same esteem as Dumbledore after all, and Voldemort was dead and gone, as was his stain on Harry’s soul. So really, he had no reason to feel like this. Nor did Draco have any reason to fall back to his previous behaviour, as far as Harry knew. So why did he? 

Harry ventured to take the next step and _not_ become the confused boy cowering under the feelings of isolation and rejection Dumbledore had forced upon him again. He was past that part of his life now. 

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” 

Draco quickly jerked his eyes to Harry’s, almost nervously, if Harry read that correctly, and then back to the barista cleaning glasses and pouring espressos behind the counter. 

“Nothing.” 

Harry waited, frowning, and barely realised when their drinks were brought to the table. Draco didn’t touch his at all. 

“Did you have something you wanted to tell me?” Harry asked cautiously, wondering if he was adding the last stick that would break the camel’s back and make Draco change back to the surly, pretentious boy he had been in school for good. Harry really didn’t want that, just when he was getting to know Draco so well and enjoying his company. Draco’s company was more like a reprieve from everything else going on his life. He loved his friends and he loved teaching, but both were taking their tolls and Harry didn’t think he could lose Draco at this point. Somehow, Draco’s opinion of Harry had gone from insignificant to casual acceptance to extremely important. Harry wasn’t sure when that transition had taken place, only that he cared for Draco as much as he did Ron and Hermione and he wasn’t going to let Draco get away with trying to fall back on his sullen pureblood demeanour.

Draco was silent and seemed not to have heard Harry at first, but a pregnant pause later and he redirected his gaze to somewhere around Harry’s hairline. “I wanted to formally extend to you a request for your company at the Malfoy Manor on December 31st, New Year’s Eve…if you would like.” Draco’s gaze wavered downward as though attempting to meet Harry’s eyes but decided against it in the end and darted back to the top of Harry’s shoulder. 

Well that was certainly the total opposite of what Harry had been expecting. He guessed their friendship wasn’t in jeopardy after all…was it? 

“Uh. That’d be great, Draco. Er, thanks.” He was expected to accept the invitation, after all, right? That was what Draco wanted, wasn’t it? What was he playing at? 

Harry knew that he would certainly love to spend New Year’s with Draco. He had no other plans, but had assumed Draco would want to spend the holiday quietly with his mother. Then again, apparently he still hadn’t figured out how to interpret what went on in Draco’s head after all this time. Nonetheless, it would be a lie to say Harry wasn’t pleased with the invitation, if not somewhat confused with its delivery. 

“I was also thinking,” Draco said with much more confidence now that Harry had accepted; he seemed to relax in his seat and was suddenly able to look Harry in the eye again. “The Manor is also equipped with an excellent library…on wizarding mental illnesses.” 

Harry frowned. He didn’t quite follow. 

“And _all_ their different, unique, and much _rarer_ causes.” Draco widened his eyes meaningfully. 

Harry still didn’t follow, but he understood at least that Draco had an idea for his current plight. And in light of the last therapeutic fiasco, Harry knew he was finally ready to finally fully tackle the problem of his friends overstepping their boundaries. He had decided that though Hermione could usually outwit him with her smarts two out of three times on a regular day, he was still decidedly sharper than most – Hermione was just wicked smart and knew more than the average person should. But Hermione and Ginny were not the only ones who could read. 

Well, read up on psychological problems, that is. 

A wide, crazy grin lit up his face as realisation set in that Harry could possibly herald in the New Year problem-free.

Draco returned the grin with a smirk of his own and settled into his cup of coffee, long fingers twisting comfortably together around the ceramic mug, all tenseness gone from his carriage, to Harry’s unexpectedly great relief. 

....

Last chapter coming up next! Finally! 


	6. New Years and Fighting Fire with Fire

Inspiration: _Crazy Like Us_ by Ethan Watters (Not mine, either; obviously)  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic, Inc., and AOL/ Time Warner, Inc., etc. No money is being made nor permission given.   
Chapterised by Imperial Mint; Thanks Bea!

.... …  
Hermione and Ginny’s Diagnoses for Incurably In Denial Heroes   
…Or…   
Harry’s and Draco’s Cure for Completely Imagined Illnesses   
… …  
New Year’s Eve: 

“To a new, more relaxing year for our Saviour of the wizarding world!” Draco tipped his glass of champagne to Harry’s swiftly before Harry could shy away from the toast. 

Instead of admitting defeat, however, Harry smirked and cried, “And to his heroic Slytherin friend, with daring nerve and chivalry!” Harry sloshed his drink around as he leant forward in his chair to clink it against Malfoy’s, which was already halfway to his mouth, with vigour. 

Draco snorted softly in his drink just as he took a sip and lowered it. “Are you mad?” he said in a somewhat sullen tone. “When have you ever seen me doing something chivalrous or daring of nerve?” He said the words like he thought he would catch a disease just by pushing them past his lips.

Harry downed the rest of his champagne flute in one victorious gulp before answering. 

“I don’t know if we’re ready to talk about all that just yet, but you did invite me here for New Year’s, didn’t you?” 

A pale flush spread across Draco’s cheeks. Harry assumed it was because he had already had too much to drink. 

“It was hardly chivalrous; it was Slytherin cunning inviting you before the Weasleys got their hands on you for New Year’s too. They already monopolise your time as it is. I figured they’d already have had you booked for Christmas, so I had to act fast.” Draco looked nonchalantly at the champagne in his hand, as though the only important thought in his head at the moment was whether to take another sip or not. 

“I actually had just planned on spending the New Year at the Three Broomsticks or something.” Harry shrugged. “Didn’t want to overstay my welcome at the Weasleys’, despite the fact that Molly would have me move in permanently.” 

“Well.” Draco continued to look down into the contents of his glass, swirled it around and then placed it down on the table. “Not that it really matters. But if I hadn’t invited you first, then I’m sure the Weasleys would have insisted, or some other one of your friends, or a random wizarding family even. I have no doubt the Ministry of Magic would have had you on their guest list before they even finished writing out the invitation.” 

Harry shuffled his feet and looked down, wishing he had something to do with his hands. Draco didn’t know how right he was. A few days after Draco had offered Harry had been submerged in owl posts demanding his presence all across Britain. Ron, too, had lettered him several times on behalf of his mum, awkwardly dancing around trying to play the part of the good best mate and leave Harry alone when he knew he wanted to be; the good boyfriend and adhere to Hermione’s wishes to ensure that Harry had company this New Year’s holiday; and the good son, making sure the whole family was home and around the table for the New Year. Harry pitied him and eventually admitted, on Christmas Eve, that he had already made plans, with Draco. 

That hadn’t gone over all that well. Both Ron, and Hermione when she was later owled by Ron himself, had demanded to know since when had he started calling Malfoy Draco? And how could Harry prefer to spend holiday at Malfoy Manor, the very place where Hermione had been tortured and Dobby killed, instead of with the Weasleys, who saw Harry as their own kin? 

Harry had answered honestly enough. His friends had known that he and Draco had decided to put their pasts behind them. It had been Ron’s disbelieving snort and Hermione’s approving nod, yet suspicious eyes that had kept Harry from telling them about all of his and Draco’s other meetings and their burgeoning friendship up until now. So really, it was their own fault for not being privy to the nature of his relationship with Draco in the first place. 

But he was sick of the lies, in the end, and wrote Hermione, bringing her up to date on what was going on with Draco. Then, just because it irked him and he didn’t want to let her get away with dismissing his and Draco’s friendship so easily, he added sardonically in the postscript that she could tack it up to yet another mental problem he had of being unable to tell who his friends were anymore. It had been wrong, he knew that, but for some reason he had felt greatly insulted on Draco’s behalf at his friends’ incredulity that Draco Malfoy could have changed for the better and that he was worth spending New Year’s with. Harry had told Ron, in no uncertain terms, that Draco was his friend and if Ron didn’t like it that was too bad, because Harry liked having Draco as a mate and nothing Ron said was going to change that. 

Of course, Harry knew Ron and his temper only all too well. He knew their friendship wasn’t in any real danger. The fact that Harry had left the Burrow sometime after Christmas dinner due to Ron’s sulking didn’t mean anything, really. Ron would be back to his normal self after the holiday, when he would come back to their apartment acting like nothing had changed. 

Harry finally said to Draco, after what seemed a very long pause of mentally reproaching his friends, “Yeah, well, I wanted to be here the most.” He looked up to see that Draco had refilled both their glasses and was taking a long sip out of his own. 

Draco cleared his throat as he put his glass down and Harry waited for him to respond. 

Draco cleared his throat again and then gestured for Harry to stand. “Yes, well, I didn’t bring you in here just to toast the New Year.” He motioned to the stacks and stacks of books that surrounded them in every which direction. “Shall we get started?” 

He led the way to the left and towards one of the wall-length windows. “’The Mind of the Wizard’ section is over here.” He waved his hand at the two floor-to-ceiling stacks of books that appeared older than time itself; Harry was afraid to even breathe near them. Some of his worry and awe must have shown on his face, for Draco assured him that they were all magically preserved and protected. “Nothing you do short of trying to brutally attack them and rip out a page,” he shot Harry a dark look promising what he would do if Harry even dared to think of doing such a thing, “is going to harm them.

“But anyway, over here in this section are the many books on theories of the mind and how to heal it. The rest,” and here he gestured to the other bookcases and shelves beyond which Harry could barely make out as more than shadows in the dimly lit room, “are about how to attack the mind and bend it to your will. Much more effective than the Imperius, but also much more Dark and illegal.” 

Harry didn’t know how something could be _more_ illegal than the Imperius or even more illegal in general. What was worse than a life sentence in Azkaban? But he told himself that he didn’t really want to know and it didn’t look like Draco was forthcoming with anymore information either. 

“I would start with a few of these over here.” Draco took out his wand and waved a stack of books out of the shelf and had them follow him and Harry to the nearest wooden table, already brightly lit with several candles hanging in the air just above their heads. Draco spread the books out on the table and started organising them in some order of importance and in categories of which Harry wasn’t sure. 

And then they were silent, each deeply lost in a book, well past the chime of midnight from the large clock atop the mantle. But neither young man noticed and only the turning of large cracked and dry pages broke the quiet and greeted the New Year. 

Harry read through all the illnesses and healing methods Hermione and Ginny had tried foisting upon him thus far, and some new ones as well that he prayed weren’t on the slowly dwindling list locked up in Hermione’s desk at home. 

But then he came upon something different in an unsuspecting book; something he never even thought had existed. 

Moments later, Harry shut the book with a huge, award-winning smile lighting up his face. 

“I found it.” 

Draco looked up, eyes half-closed and unfocused like he’d been about to fall asleep. “Huh?” 

It was amusing to know that the calm and collected king of Slytherin did, in fact, need his beauty sleep. Harry thought it wiser not to comment on that at the moment, though, as Draco seemed the type to be snippier than usual when low on energy and patience. 

“I found the answer,” he repeated. 

Draco blinked awake quickly, shaking his head jerkily and making himself look, surprisingly, endearingly childish to Harry. 

“You did?” 

Harry nodded, watched and waited. 

Draco suddenly shot up from his seat with a slightly dazed smile. “That’s great!” All sleepiness left his eyes to be replaced with unadulterated excitement and something else that Harry wasn’t quite sure of.

He was given a pretty good idea though a second later when Draco leant over the table, planted one hand on the surface and used the other to take Harry’s cheek in his hand before pressing his lips against Harry’s for a long, lingering minute. 

In his shock, Harry could taste the champagne from before and Draco’s slightly stale breath from breathing through his nose as he had pored over old tomes for the last couple hours. Both of their lips were cracked, though Harry’s were a little wet from licking them involuntarily the moment Draco’s hand had touched the side of his face and he had realised what Draco was about to do. Why, he still wasn’t entirely sure, but Harry supposed that sleepiness, their shared relief and elation at having finally found something and maybe even Harry’s encouraging words from earlier – not to mention the alcohol still in their system – had strengthened the small part of Draco’s Gryffindor courage into acting. 

Harry felt more than saw Draco shift and noticed that he was probably in an uncomfortable position, pushing his hips into the mahogany table and putting all the pressure on his other hand to keep himself upright and still. In response, Harry pulled his head back an inch to break their contact and then stood, freeing his hands from under the table. 

He was not sure why this felt comfortable and good. Nor did he know whether it was his sleep-deprived mind combined with his raised adrenaline levels from finding his answer to the Hermione-Ginny problem that made this seem like the perfect thing to be doing at 3 o’clock in the morning on New Year’s. But the sudden, unexpected realisation that his relationship with Draco felt so…so…different than his relationship with Ron or Hermione, or any of his other friends, really, was not unwelcome. 

He couldn’t quite place what it was exactly, but maybe Draco understood better than he did. 

Before Draco could react to Harry pulling away, Harry had reached his hands up to cup Draco’s face and then pushed Draco away from the uncomfortable table, meeting him halfway this time. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Draco’s upper lip, and then his lower lip and then his chin, on the little cleft. Draco’s eyes were lidded and he seemed to be taking it all in, enjoying the attention Harry was lavishing on him. When Harry pulled away finally, his lips mere millimetres away from Draco’s, Draco opened his eyes, asking a silent question to Harry. 

Unspoken, they came together again simultaneously, fingers twisting into locks of hair, lips meshing, coming apart, and then coming together again, and hands finding purchase around necks and collars and shoulders. 

“Did you really,” Harry panted harshly, “ask me over to research? Or to tell me this?” He leaned forward again and covered Draco’s lips with his own before the other could answer.

“Actually, Potter.” Draco pulled back, just as breathless. “That was supposed to be a congratulatory kiss.” He went back in to nip down Harry’s throat. “You made it into more.” 

“Oh – oh – oh really?” Harry felt that he had lost the sarcastic tone he had been going for, but wasn’t too upset to really care when Draco responded so brilliantly with his tongue deep down Harry’s throat. 

Breaking the kiss again and retracing his path back down Harry’s neck, Draco smiled against Harry’s collarbone and his hands buried themselves into Harry’s mane of hair. “Maybe both.” He pulled back to look into Harry’s wide, glazed-over, pupil-dilated eyes. “But a Malfoy never divulges his ultimate plans.” 

Harry’s eyes grazed over Draco’s lips again and then he dove back in. Right now, a grin on his face and a deliriously happy chuckle bubbling quietly from the back of his throat, he just didn’t care. 

....

Fighting Fire with Fire: 

Harry had ended up seeing Draco on an almost daily basis after New Year’s. During the last week of holiday before school started up again, Harry spent more time at the Manor and out and about the village with Draco than he did in his own flat. And not all of that time was spent reading up on mental illnesses and putting together a strong case for Harry against Hermione and Ginny’s accusations. In fact, much of the time was spent getting used to the idea that Harry now had a boyfriend, one Draco Malfoy to be exact. As an afterthought, Harry realised that he and Ginny would definitely not be getting back together after all this was over. 

Harry doubted that she had had this in mind when she put them on hold, probably thinking that the separation and Harry coming to terms with his messed up life would somehow make them stronger as a couple. Instead, she and Hermione had ended up pushing him right into Draco’s lap – quite literally, he thought, as he remembered spending the night at the Manor the night before. 

And somehow, between all that _and_ reading up on his decided lack of mental problems, Harry had still found the time to do his homework, update his lesson plans, and plan out the next month for his classes. He wondered why Profess Surtenkou was even being paid still; Harry had effectively taken over all of his classes, was doing all his work, and was now the face the students saw more frequently in class on a daily basis. He suspected McGonagall had known this would be the case from the start when he had earlier confessed to her that he didn’t want to work in the Ministry, ever. Harry wasn’t sure how he was going to tell her that he would be travelling next year and didn’t know when he would return or what he would do from there. 

But one problem at a time. 

It was the day before holiday ended and he had invited Hermione and Ginny for a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, where he was currently waiting for them in a booth hidden in the back. He was now armed and ready. A Butterbeer was half drained in front of him and he was on the lookout for any heads bushy and brown as well as sleek and ginger, belonging to the two girls who had taken his mental state to be their latest crusade and had brought him to the brink of insanity in the process. 

He saw Ginny first. Her flaming red locks were hard to miss anywhere, even bundled as they were under her thick winter coat and scarf, like the rest of the small group of girls that had just entered the Three Broomsticks with her. As she released and shook out her hair from its wrap, she looked around for Harry, spotting him after a moment and breaking away from her group to go join him. Hermione walked through the doors seconds later, looking winded as she bustled through the door and immediately spotted Ginny making her way towards Harry. 

Good. They were both here. 

“Harry,” they both greeted. “How was your holiday?” 

Ginny and Hermione both leaned over, one after the other, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, clucking about their holidays, when they had got back and how good and healthy he looked. But really he could tell they were anxious, hoping to hear that Harry had experienced a major realisation over holiday and was ready to ‘come clean’ to them and finally ask for their help, or some other such nonsense. 

Taking a deep breath, he waited for them to seat themselves opposite him and settle down. He fingered his small stack of books in the seat next to him, proof in case Harry’s word wasn’t enough – as seemed to be the problem lately. No one would believe Harry was just fine when he told them. They needed research and theorists and books and Mind Healers and support of group therapy. So he was going to give them exactly what they wanted. 

Clearing his throat with gentle force, he started with his opening gambit. “I’ve done some reading of my own over the holiday about W.A.T.E. and other wizarding illnesses and have come to a conclusion I thought I’d share with you both.” They leant forward eagerly, faces alight in excitement and anticipation. He steeled himself and spoke determinedly, “From what I’ve read, it is clear that you both are perpetuating my problem by trying to force me to deal with it when I already have my own psychological strategy for dealing with my life right now. 

“Studies show,” he began, hoping he sounded knowledgeable and sure of himself, even as the words came out meshed and nonsensical to his ears, “that briefing ‘victims’” – he quoted the word in his mind because he was _not_ a victim, but they wanted to see him as one, so he would use the proper terminology that they could best understand – “of the trauma actually causes higher risk of problems in the future. For example, expressed hostility, feelings of depression and anxiety, _and_ a reported lower quality of life, say, even five years from now. So, in actuality, your suggestions and methods of therapy are actually pushing me _back_ in my progress.” 

He paused there for dramatic effect. He had rehearsed this with Draco countless times – most of the words were Draco’s, of course – but Harry still wished he had a few note cards he could rely on. When there were no bad guys to face off and no do-or-die situation to face, he found himself quite tongue-tied and not at all confident. But he took a deep breath and forged ahead, doing his best to maintain his clinical manner and analytical wording. 

“You can check my sources in here.” He picked up the three books by his side and dropped them on the table, pushing them towards the girls. Hermione picked one up and opened the cover to look at the title page, while Ginny strained and twisted her neck to look at the titles of the other two. “Borrow them for as long as you want, but I promise you they’re just as credible as anything you two have tried to throw at me.” 

Harry steadily looked each girl in the eye, making sure they were taking him seriously and that they were acknowledging the gravity of the situation. His quality of life was at stake here! He was sure of that at least. He was either going to blow up at his friends one of these days, or he was going to go on that trip with Draco and never come back; become that crazy mountain hermit no one ever hears from again. And neither of those options sounded particularly appealing to him. But then, that was what stress did to you. 

“Now,” he said with firm finality in his voice. “While I am grateful for you looking out for me and trying to help, I would appreciate it if you would all just leave me alone and let me deal with this in my own way. If I need your help,” he paused, looking at each of them in the eyes again to drive his point home, “I’ll ask.” 

With that, he stood up, drained the last of his Butterbeer, slammed it down onto the wood, and then stood up as gracefully as possible and took long, determined strides out the door.

Harry: 100; Ginny/ Hermione: Indefinite Loss

He would have grinned and done a little victory dance at his own genius and the answering reactions of shock on their faces, but that might appear unprofessional or like he wasn’t taking this seriously, and then it would all have been for naught. So, as it was, he calmly and suavely walked away with his head held high, but not high enough that one would think he thought too much of himself. No, that was a look only Draco could pull off. Nor did he hold it too high that made one assume he thought he had all the answers in the world, because he did at least acknowledge that his life was pretty messed up. So he held his head just high enough to be believed that he was bravely soldiering on and would like to be left alone in his battled endeavour. 

That is until he saw Draco staring at him, waiting from across the street, rolling up an Extendable Ear he had undoubtedly taken from Harry, and putting it in his pocket. Harry turned, planning on making his way over to Draco, but gravity, unfortunately, had other plans for him. All too soon, and quite unexpectedly, Harry found his nose to the pavement and his feet tangled around a plant of some sort. Had that always been there? 

Perfect, he thought with a defeated groan. Just perfect. 

Draco was by his side in an instant, laughing as he gave Harry a hand up. 

“I’m almost sure the girls didn’t see that,” Draco assured, brushing off Harry’s now-dusty robes with an expert hand and an exasperated shake of his head, “Though if they did, I’m sure it’ll only help your case, because if you had sounded too eloquent and seemed too confident, they might have thought something was up. Now they know it was definitely you.” 

Harry put on an affronted look and glared indignantly. He had nothing to say for himself. Except, “You thought I sounded eloquent?” 

Draco looked him up and down and decided he was decent enough again, because he took his arm and started steering him up the road. “Yes, Scarhead, you did well. You actually rendered Granger speechless for more than a minute. I’d consider that a job well done.” 

Harry smiled, content. Though he couldn’t explain why he knew for certain, he felt that his problems with Ginny and Hermione were finally over. They would not be bothering him again on his mental state, at least not any time soon. Of course, he hadn’t told them about Draco, or about their plans to travel this summer, and he really had no clue how any of it was going to blow over with Hermione and the Weasleys. But right now, he wasn’t too worried about all that. He would deal with it all when the time came. 

Probably sometime tonight after Hermione had given Ron an earful of what happened today. They had no doubt seen Draco come over and help Harry up too. What an exit. 

“You never did say what cure you thought you got from the books, though,” Draco demanded. Even though to anyone else it sounded like a plain statement, Harry knew better. 

‘You mean besides not rubbing salt into an open wound?” That didn’t mean he had to give a straight answer, though. What would be the fun in that? 

“Obviously,” Draco said, squeezing Harry’s upper arm until it was just a tad more than uncomfortable. 

Harry grinned, though, unfazed. It was really common sense and Draco had been the one to show him in the first place, so he should already know. 

He looked over at Draco and waited until Draco was looking back at him, straight in the eye – it didn’t take long – before answering, “ _Laughter_ is the world’s best medicine. Didn’t you know?” 

Harry grinned simply at Draco’s shocked, yet decidedly impressed, look and affirmed that yes, the secret of life was taking the time to enjoy and appreciate each moment life had to offer, the good and the bad, and to find the ability to laugh at yourself along the way. He was sure Draco would be more than game in helping him out with that for as long as they had. And really, what more could he want than that? 

....

Live, LAUGH, and Love


End file.
